


We have not touched the stars

by huddleofneurons



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Slow Burn, so many feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:53:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 40,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huddleofneurons/pseuds/huddleofneurons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Rachel Berry doesn’t do impulsive – usually." What happened after Finn's funeral, and then some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If you were here, winter wouldn't pass quite so slow

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me my errors in canon knowledge; I haven't actually watched an episode in ages. Title borrowed from Richard Siken.

Rachel Berry doesn’t do impulsive – usually. Not that the 2:00 train to New Haven is technically impulsive; she could be forgiven the extenuating circumstances of the past two months for showing up on Quinn’s doorstep unannounced.

(It’s not technically Quinn’s doorstep so much as the outside of her dorm, and if Quinn hadn’t abruptly deleted her Facebook account and Santana had deigned to give Rachel her new number, she would’ve left _some_ notice of her intentions.) 

She’s spent the majority of the train ride pondering the reasons why Quinn hadn’t shown up to Finn’s funeral, something that had barely registered at the time, if she were being completely honest. Rachel does not wear her grief so much as inhabit it with the theatric flourish it demands – at least that’s she’d heard Kurt mutter to Santana when they were safely back in New York. Rachel fails to see what had been wrong with her decorum, even now that the fog of grief had been replaced with a keen numbness deep in her bones; that, however, is beside the point. 

Quinn’s presence was expected, and the ache of her absence – even if it came late – wounds Rachel for some reason. Even if Rachel concedes that funerals are not for the dead but for the living, hadn’t Quinn’s past been inextricably linked with Finn’s (and, perhaps, her own)? Nevertheless, she shoos the righteous indignation that bristles within her and tries to spend the rest of the train journey scouting the scenery, ignoring the vague air of spent cigarettes the train upholstery seems to conjure. 

If autumn in New York is a marvel in and of itself, then autumn in New Haven is tinged with an aura of splendor that borders on miraculous. Rachel hugs her scarf a bit tighter as she glides through Yale’s campus, feeling as if at any point, she might unwittingly end up on a postcard. It’s a welcome distraction, replete with an air of clarity that has so rarely permeated her existence recently, to imagine Quinn ambling these same paths. Rachel smiles – sans guilt – for perhaps the first time since she’d learned of Finn’s death those weeks ago. There’s sense of rightness in the way she pictures Quinn hustling to class, or reading beneath some hulking elm. It almost feels wrong to confront her, to chastise her for leaving a place that suits her so evidently. _Almost_.

But beneath that abysmally stupid urge to rehash old drama is the fear she’s lost a friendship she’d once considered so valuable. Among the many ghosts that haunt Rachel Berry – Finn now woefully present among them – is the specter of her friendship with Quinn. She’d seen Quinn’s face on the projector screen during the memorial slideshow, gazed around and thought nothing that she couldn’t quite place her face in the crowd. It was easy to write off as the nimbleness of grief, weaving its tendrils into her consciousness like the weeds in her fathers’ garden; but the fact remained that Quinn’s was the one voice she needed to hear. The one ghost she might resurrect, somehow. 

Her ambling trek around Yale leads her, more or less, towards Quinn’s dorm, its white-bricked façade glistening with ivy, slick from the rain she’d just missed. Rachel skirts through the door of Quinn’s dorm with aplomb, smiling graciously at a tall boy with a Yale Rugby shirt as he holds it open for her. It feels like a good omen. Rugby Boy then darts unceremoniously into the common room, leaving Rachel to weave her way discreetly through the Yalies that flank her in the hallway, scurrying to some seminar or other. 

She’d managed – with a solitary purloined bottle of tequila – to buy herself enough time to rifle through the contents of Santana’s laptop the day before, hoping to stumble upon Quinn’s address. Her brief interest in sleuthing during childhood (no doubt brought on by the meagerly talented antics of Mary Kate and Ashley’s detective agency) had finally paid off, as she’d managed to swiftly memorize the details just as Santana had slipped an arm around her shoulder, begging Rachel to join her – in a voice marked by the particular brand of kindness only tequila might supply – and Kurt in a viewing of _Rent_.

The third-floor hallway is mercifully empty, buying Rachel some time to smooth her coat before she manages a weak knock on the door to Quinn’s dorm. A petite redhead – who is definitely _not_ Quinn – answers with an expectant, albeit not unkind, look. 

“Umm, hello, I’m Rachel Berry, a friend of Quinn’s?” 

Rachel’s smile must have been particularly feeble, as the girl just pats her arm reassuringly and beckons her inside. “Well, you just missed her. I’m Clem, one of her roommates. Would you like to wait here? Or, I think she said she was headed to the library – you might want to track her down there?” 

“Did you think she’ll be gone long?” Rachel asks, gazing absently at the collage above Quinn’s door. (If she squints, she’d swear it looks like there’s a picture of the two of them in the bottom corner.) 

“Oh, most definitely. Was she expecting you? I think she’s got a midterm or something… But you’re welcome to hang out here. You’re one of her high school friends, right?” Clem is perched atop her desk, looking bemused. 

“You could say that,” Rachel says haltingly. “But no, I don’t imagine she’d be expecting me. It’s kind of a long story.” 

Clem smiles. “Well, the library’s open all night. Let me walk you there, I’ve got to study for my midterm anyway.” 

The glasses are new – that is, they frame Quinn’s face in an artful way that Rachel doesn’t think she’s seen before. Clem has long since gone inside, but Rachel hasn’t quite managed to step inside the library café where Quinn is studying, poring over some papers with a quiet intensity that suits her. Her hair falls across her forehead in shaggy, unkempt waves, which she pushes back unsuccessfully; she wears it shorter than Rachel expected, but it flatters her. (Not that Quinn could look anything less than devastating.) 

It dawns on Rachel that she might be interrupting something – that Quinn might be waiting on a study date, or worse, a real one. Rachel knows very little of Quinn’s life these days, apart from what Santana lets slip occasionally. There had been emphatic texts and e-mails freshman year, mostly at Quinn’s behest. But for as much as Quinn had kept Rachel at bay, peripheralized, during high school, it occurs to Rachel that she’s unwittingly, even foolishly, done the same as of late. But then Quinn looks up and for a split second, Rachel swears she’d been _seen_. Cover blown, mission epically failed. 

Then, Quinn does the thing she’d least expected: she _smiles_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from "Winter '05" by Ra Ra Riot


	2. You want to live when life is achingly unfair

Quinn smiles gently at the apparition that is Rachel Berry, standing outside a library in New Haven. If she were being honest – and these days, isn’t Quinn Fabray trying? – Quinn half-expected something like this from Rachel. She’s got to hand it to Rachel, it’s certainly dramatic, traveling ninety-odd miles to see someone you’ve barely interacted with in a year. 

There’s a flash of something in Rachel’s eyes, brief and staggeringly real, that tells Quinn it won’t be a visit of goodwill on Rachel’s part. She hugs Rachel all the tighter for it – when push comes to shove, Fabrays hedge their bets, but even if it’s Finn Hudson’s death that has Rachel shaken up to high heaven, Quinn doesn’t mind that it’s here, and _her_ , of all places that Rachel turns to. It’s kind of gratifying, almost.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call first,” Rachel stammers as they part. There’s something birdlike in her reticence, as if grief has dulled that famous Rachel Berry resolve. There’s a certain, insistent pang in Quinn’s chest, taking it all in. 

“It’s fine,” Quinn answers, an unmistakable note of softness ringing in her voice. She feels awkwardly grown up, now, reassuring a distraught Rachel Berry instead of being the cause of her distress. “Clem texted me as soon as you showed up, so I’ve had a few minutes to ward off the shock.” 

Rachel smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. (Santana wasn’t kidding, after all.) “I suppose you’ll be wondering what I’m doing here.”

“Why don’t you tell me over coffee? Contrary to what my frazzled roommate may or may not have said, I’m not really in a rush,” Quinn says gently, ushering Rachel up to the counter of the café. 

“That’s…very kind of you, Quinn.” 

She can feel Rachel’s gaze as she orders two lattes, one vegan (just in case). It’s almost reassuring, Rachel’s abrupt appearance, as Quinn feels lifted from her own headspace, which has not escaped Finn’s death unscathed, contrary to Glee Club popular opinion. 

There’s a long pause as Quinn waits for her drink to cool. “I really don’t mind you coming here, Rachel, I’m just a bit puzzled,” she explains, pushing a hand through her wayward bangs. “I didn’t think we were really friends anymore.”

“Of course we’re still friends.” The vehemence in Rachel’s voice is palpable and a bit jarring. “I mean, it’s just that lately—”

“It’s okay, Rachel.” Her hand gently covers Rachel’s. “I know you’ve been through a lot.” 

The gaze that meets hers is brimming with tears. Quinn’s chest tightens. “Why weren’t you at the funeral, Quinn?” Rachel asks haltingly. “I—I looked for you, I _needed_ you there.”

“Rach,” Quinn sighs. There’s always been a heaviness to their relationship, and this is no different. “It’s not like I didn’t _want_ to go. It’s… complicated, is all.”

“So explain it to me.” Rachel’s voice is clarion clear, but beneath it, Quinn knows there is pleading. 

There’s a thickness to the air – a different Quinn might’ve choked in its grasp, bristled at feeling needed. But Quinn wants to dispel the tension, wants to proffer the comfort she knows Rachel is seeking. (Why she’d chosen Quinn, however, is beyond her.) The room is warm and damp; cocooned in its embrace, Quinn feels small, but her voice carries. 

“It wasn’t to avoid paying my respects, if that’s what you were thinking. I’ve been in touch with Carole – Mrs. Hudson-Hummel – and I _did_ send flowers.” Quinn barely suppresses a sigh. “Look, I’ve made peace with myself while I’ve been here. God knows it wasn't easy. But I haven’t made peace with… who I was, then. And what I did, especially to Finn. And to you.”

“But it wasn’t – it isn’t – about you. It was about Finn.” 

“God, Rachel, we’re not back in high school,” Quinn snaps, then immediately regrets it. “I’m sorry, that’s unkind. I know that everyone came, and I didn’t, and I know how that looks. Really, I do.”

Rachel’s gaze carries weight; it burns, with its myriad of unspoken accusations. She’s seen the hurt before, the pain – but this, somehow, is different. When Rachel used to look at her, her gaze all alight with something Quinn didn’t have words for, it was magnificent, disarming even. Now, it’s saddening at best. 

“I wish I understood you,” Rachel murmurs softly, her voice barely audible above the din of café chatter. “I want to be angry at you, but I just _can’t_. I can’t feel… anything, actually.”

Quinn frowns sympathetically, letting the silence envelop the two of them. “God, Finn Hudson always did have a reputation for leaving a trail of destruction in his wake,” she muses softly, almost to herself.

“That’s not fair and you know it, Quinn.” Rachel’s voice is slow and somehow calm. Grief has made her harder, and now Quinn can’t quite hold her gaze. Her mind reels, half-longing for the days of McKinley and Glee Club, when her biggest conundrum was whether to kiss Rachel or kill her. 

Quinn rubs the back of her neck awkwardly. “I guess not, huh?” Resignation is not really a Fabray’s strong suit, but Rachel has worn her down. She’s threadbare, traipsing on the same precipice they’d danced across in high school. 

Rachel’s lips are pursed, her gaze elsewhere. There’s something unbearable about the persistence of her grief, how raw it is. She pushes away her coffee cup with a light touch, eyeing the ring of moisture left on the wooden table. “I’m sorry,” she says in a small voice. “I clearly shouldn’t have ambushed you like this.”

Quinn, for her part, smiles through the awkwardness. “I don’t mind, really. I’m kind of glad you did, actually.”

Rachel’s gaze is finally able to meet hers. “Really?” Her tone is unmistakably hopeful, sending a definite thrum through Quinn’s stomach.

“I wanted to call you, really I did, after I found out. But I’ve been a coward, no two ways about that. I didn’t think you’d be able to forgive me for not being there for you. Maybe I figured if you hated me for it, it would be easier for you.” Quinn exacts a pause from the messy, unkempt silence. “I’m sorry, Rach. You deserved a lot more from me than silence.”

Rachel looks a bit stunned, in contrast to the nearly unflappable poise she’d managed to sustain in high school. “That’s… remarkably honest of you.”

It’s not an admission of forgiveness, but Quinn will take it. “We always tried to be honest with each other, didn’t we?” she asks mutedly.

“Yeah, we did.” 

The silence isn’t exactly a comforting one, but it doesn’t quite seem the appropriate moment to dive into the _Hey remember when I bullied you mercilessly in high school? Well it turns out I was nursing a massive crush on you, isn’t that hilarious?_ routine she’s been turning over in her head for the better part of a year. Old Fabray habits die hard, and even if Quinn’s being honest with herself, she’s not quite ready to cross that bridge anyway.

Still, Rachel’s fingers entwine with hers atop the table; it’s a steady, comforting gesture, intimate in a way that feels new. When Rachel coaxes a small smile, the room nearly spins on its axis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from "Don't Give Up" by The Whitest Boy Alive


	3. Would you always, maybe sometimes, make it easy?

How they end up in Quinn’s dorm, Rachel isn’t quite sure, but she’s grateful that, along the way back, Quinn mostly seemed contented with pointing out the various high points of the Yale campus without expecting much from her audience. There’s a poise that Quinn carries now, all calm and stillness – it’s different, somehow, from the stilted mask she wore in high school, and Rachel is half-envy, half-mesmerized by it. She’s beautiful, too, radiating with a glow that isn’t quite contentment but isn’t the restlessness Rachel had been accustomed to seeing. 

Quinn is extending Rachel a glass of wine before she realizes she’s been lost in thought for what is likely an inappropriate amount of time. 

Quinn’s eyes are gentle and patient. “I thought this might help – not that I’m plying you with alcohol, God knows I learned my lesson with that one.” She barks out a laugh. “Anyway, you don’t have to, but I thought we’d toast… to you.”

Rachel’s a bit stunned, but she accepts the glass anyway. “To me?”

She nods, a flicker of lightness in her gaze. “To Rachel Berry, the best damn New Yorker I know, and certainly the best unexpected visitor to boot. May she enjoy bad wine and Ivy hospitality for many years to come.”

“You really mean that?” Rachel murmurs softly. 

“Of course I do. I don’t know what got into me when I said I thought we weren’t friends before. No matter what happens, no matter how long we go without Skyping or texting, I owe you my friendship. Hell, you’re the reason I even got out of Lima in the first place.” Quinn’s smile is crooked, genuine even, and it coaxes something deep and warm, if not exactly familiar, in Rachel’s chest.

And it’s easier, somehow, between them – Rachel starts talking about Kurt, about Santana and New York and NYADA and all the auditions she’s had lately. About the all the leading men that fell short and the minor triumphs of the past year, small as they are. Quinn sits cross-legged, drink untouched, smiling an unfettered smile that only encourages Rachel. No one, not even her dads, lets her talk this much. 

It’s only in the middle of a rather convoluted story involving her strategy for securing a coveted role in the Winter Showcase that it registers that Quinn might just be humoring her, rather than genuinely interested in the goings-on at NYADA (well, at least the goings-on that involve Rachel Barbra Berry). 

“I’m not… boring you, am I?” Rachel asks tentatively. 

Quinn’s smile is a reassuring one. “Of course not.” 

“Well, that’s a relief.” A small laugh escapes her, but she continues thoughtfully down her muddled train of thought. “God, you’re so… different. I mean, you’re still gorgeous as all get-out, but you’re… you’re softer, I think. I’d hate to think it’s because you pity me. Kurt does, Santana too.” 

Something about Rachel’s look must be needy, because Quinn scrambles to throw her arm around Rachel; it isn’t the most elegant of gestures, but it’s comforting. Her sweater smells of rain and lavender. 

“I don’t pity you,” Quinn says resolutely after a moment. “For the longest time, I envied you. God knows I wasn't kind about that. But I’m proud of you, Rach; I really am. You’ve never given up. It’s kind of inspiring, really.”

It’s an impulsive thing, but the bloom in Rachel’s chest edges out the fog that’s taken root the last few weeks, and she can feel the press of her lips against Quinn’s cheek before she can contemplate what she’s done – or why. 

“Sorry,” she murmurs after a moment, settling down against the crook of Quinn’s shoulder. She looks a bit surprised, but to Quinn’s credit, she bears it better than Rachel expects. There is, Rachel thinks, a tint of rose to Quinn’s cheeks, and it registers dimly that she may have caused it. 

“It’s okay, Rach.” Quinn’s voice is small, but calm. The quiet rage and desperation Rachel had sensed in high school has stilled, leaving beneath it something even more alluring. The façade of impenetrability had been intriguing enough, back then, but now, its replacement draws a keen interest, almost a fascination. (Rachel isn’t sure if she wants it to be the alcohol or not.)

“I want to ask you something,” Rachel says slowly, after awhile. Her thoughts are disjointed and unruly, but she plucks a thread and follows it doggedly. 

“Go for it,” Quinn replies quietly. 

“Are you happy?” 

She’s still for a moment before answering, chewing the question over thoughtfully. “I could be, here. It’s been—a long time, you know; it’s kind of difficult to recapture a feeling that was never natural to begin with. But I want to be.”

“You deserve to be,” Rachel pipes up, insistently. Somewhere along the way, her glass mysteriously refilled itself, and the alcohol has emboldened her, though not disastrously. “You’re lovely, you know.”

Quinn huffs out a laugh; though Rachel is sitting cross-legged now, no longer resting against Quinn, she can feel its insistent trace in the air. “If only that were true.”

Rachel yawns. “Well, I want to argue with you – because, deep down, we both know I’m right – but I fear I should be getting back to the Big Apple or else Kurt and Santana will send out the hounds to sniff me out.” She’s perched on the edge of Quinn’s bed, but Quinn’s hand reaches hers before she can hop off.

“Like you’re going anywhere tonight,” Quinn insists. Rachel detects a hint of playfulness and suddenly, the prospect that Quinn wants her to spend the night fills her with a strange sense of lightness. “The train gets sketchy at night, and anyway, it’s not like I have a full dance card or anything.”

“You really mean it?” Rachel’s tone, in spite of herself, is stunned. 

“Well, halfway through your captivating little tale of Winter Showcase scheming, I may have taken the liberty of getting some food delivered. It’s a local place that Clem’s crazy about—she’s vegan too, you know. I’d hate to have to eat all that food alone.” 

Rachel beams. “I don’t quite know whether to tackle hug you or chastise you for failing to fully grasp the extent of my tactical genius.” 

“Your tactical genius hardly failed to register, believe me. It’s more that I didn’t want to be a bad host. Fabray habits and all.” Quinn’s smile hardens temporarily as she stands and grabs a bottle of water from the mini-fridge beside her desk. It’s not long before there’s a knock at the door of the suite, leaving Rachel the opportunity to appraise Quinn’s dorm room.

It’s certainly larger than she imagined, but sparser, too. The walls are mostly bare, save for a few vintage art posters, the décor striking her as a little too calculated to be genuine. But there’s a collage above Quinn’s desk that catches her eye: at its center, a sweet-faced, blonde toddler with dark eyes and a smile that is all mischief. Rachel expects a pang of sadness to register, perhaps something bittersweet; instead, she’s delighted by the photograph, how happy the child looks, even as it’s beginning to navigate a perilous, confusing world for the first time. 

Quinn enters the doorway carrying two heaping Styrofoam containers, both of which smell amazing; her gaze turns nervously to the collage once she’s deduced what has grasped Rachel’s attention in her absence. 

“You can ask about her, you know,” Quinn says, her smile tentative as she hands Rachel one of the containers. “I don’t mind, truly.” 

Rachel chews thoughtfully for a few moments – whatever vegan concoction she’s been handed is no less than spectacular, not that she’s surprised – before she speaks. “You must miss her awfully.” It’s not what she intended to say, and from the look she receives in return, she’s dampened the mood again. _Smooth, Berry_ , she thinks dully. 

“I do,” Quinn answers evenly, after a moment. “But she’s… in a better place than I could provide. I’ve tried to believe that for years, but I think I finally do, now.”

Rachel can’t resist bringing her hand to Quinn’s shoulder – a short distance, the way they’re sitting, on the rug, backs to Quinn’s bed. The gesture feels tentative and comforting at the same time, the way their relationship used to feel. A feeling Rachel realizes, in a hazy sort of fashion, she is borderline desperate to recapitulate. 

Quinn regards her inscrutably; it should make Rachel nervous, but her nerves have long since passed. 

“We can talk about him, if you want. If it would… help.” 

Rachel’s hand falls from Quinn’s shoulder and she exhales. “I don’t know if that would help, or… I mean—”

“Look, I get it,” Quinn says quickly. “Maybe I’m not the one you wanna talk about this stuff with. I can respect that. I just… if that was why you came here in the first place, I wanted to give you a chance to talk it out.”

Rachel can’t even fathom why she showed up on Quinn’s doorstep unannounced; it feels like years ago. “That’s very kind of you, Quinn. And it’s not that I don’t or can’t talk about it – about _him_ , I mean. It’s just that every time I seem to try, I always end up hurting someone more than I bargained. There’s a reason why Kurt and Santana won’t look me in the eye anymore.” 

Rachel’s expression must seem more impassive, even stoic, for Quinn’s face falls more quickly than she expected. She hears a muttered, _Oh Rach_ , and soon she’s enveloped in Quinn’s strong arms. Rachel wants deeply to hold it together, to avoid smudging her makeup on the shoulder of Quinn’s sweater and peppering its woolen comfort with tears. To channel Barbra in her grief, however difficult. But she can’t: she sinks into the embrace wordlessly, all her questions muted by Quinn’s steady presence. There’s the soft brush of lips against her forehead, and Rachel’s eyes close against the renewed stillness in her chest. She can’t remember the last time she’s been held without expectation. 

Then her stomach growls. Rachel is glad Quinn can’t see her blush, though she barely suppresses a giggle. 

“You or me?” Quinn laughs, breaking the embrace. “I knew I should have fed you earlier.”

Rachel sniffles indignantly. “ _Fed_ me?”

There’s a satisfied, if demure, smile. “Well, you _are_ my guest.” She shrugs as Rachel resumes eating. 

Later, when Quinn returns from trashing their containers, her voice has grown strangely thin. “Rachel, I just wanted to say – that I’m so sorry. About everything.”

Rachel glances up. Quinn’s arms are crossed uncomfortably, her expression wounded. It’s the first time Rachel can clearly see how much her own pain has affected Quinn; it’s strange and a little new, though if she tries, she can remember a flicker of this same expression senior year in high school, when she was prepared to marry Finn. It might be alarming – Quinn trying, Quinn _caring_ – if Rachel didn’t need it, and her, so damn badly. It’s a thought that reviles her. She can’t let a boy stand between them forever. 

“I told you I’d hurt you,” Rachel says quietly, apologetically.

Quinn’s face softens momentarily. “But you haven’t. You’re not the one that upset me; what bothers me is that I wasn’t able to be there for you. And that I was too afraid that you’d never forgive me to even pick up the phone.” She sighs as Rachel takes her hand. “Then, when you showed up, I realized this might be the only chance I had to reclaim our friendship, and I keep thinking about how close I came to losing you because I was a coward.”

“Quinn,” Rachel breathes. She’s pretty sure she’s crying, now, but she ignores the tears with violent resolve. There’s a thread of expectation in the moment, but she’s caught up in Quinn’s expression and the stifled words that play across her face. The sadness is mesmerizing, has always been mesmerizing. It makes her want to protect Quinn, to shield her from her own expectations. 

“Try as I might, I just keep _hurting you_. And sometimes I don’t understand why you keep letting me. I can’t possibly make up for all the ways I’ve wounded you.”

“But you want to try, don’t you?” Rachel asks softly. 

“Of course I do,” Quinn answers quickly. 

“And you’re here now, aren’t you?”

“We’re in New Haven, Rach,” Quinn mutters, then recovers, her face more open than Rachel’s ever seen it. “Of course I am. You have to know that.”

“Then that’s enough for me,” Rachel asserts. 

“I don’t understand—”

“Being with you today is the closest I’ve felt to being myself in a long time, Quinn. You can’t possibly know how much. I don’t even really care anymore that you weren’t there for the funeral; you must’ve had your reasons. You’re here for me now, when I need you most.” 

“And I’m supposed to believe that? After all I’ve put you through?” Quinn’s voice isn’t breaking so much as already broken; there’s a soft, weary quality to her that Rachel can never seem to refuse. 

“You’re the one person besides my dads that’s ever unequivocally believed in me. No one, not even Finn, ever saw me the way you do.”

“Yeah, well, no one tried to ruin your life like I did, either,” Quinn mumbles sarcastically. 

Rachel huffs. “Lucy Quinn Fabray, I am _trying_ to tell you how much I appreciate – have always appreciated – our friendship!” 

Quinn holds up her arms in protest, but her smile is unguarded and genuine. “Okay, okay.” Then, a beat later: “Thanks, Rachel Barbra Berry.” 

The mood lightens when Rachel demands to see the finer points of Quinn’s “Ivy League” bookshelf, which naturally devolves into Quinn’s “Ivy League” Netflix queue. They’re halfway through some foreign musical Quinn’s never heard of – one that, naturally, Rachel knows all the lyrics to – when Rachel realizes Quinn’s slept through about twenty minutes and missed the best dance number. She looks peaceful, collapsed alongside Rachel on the tiny twin-XL bed. Her hair is ruffled and unkempt, and Rachel resists the urge to smooth it. 

There’s always been some palpable urge to care for Quinn Fabray, even in high school. Rachel’s seen the looks that Kurt and Santana share whenever she mentions Quinn’s name, but she’s never questioned their unusual friendship. Not that Quinn’s ever given her reason to (well, she _did_ sleep with Santana, but Rachel’s not supposed to know that yet). She turns off the lights in Quinn’s tiny dorm, and breathes as she lies beside a sleeping Quinn.

When Rachel awakes abruptly in the middle of the night, like she has for weeks, she does so with Quinn’s arms around her. Beneath the feeling of tightness in her chest, there is – at long last – a feeling of safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from "Two Weeks" by Grizzly Bear


	4. Beauty beauty all you say, and that's your only story

Quinn wakes to find Rachel dozing happily on her shoulder, her limbs entwined with Quinn’s own. _This is new_ , Quinn thinks, then banishes the (not unpleasant) thought. She’s supposed to be comforting a distraught Rachel, not finding additional reasons why Rachel ties her stomach in knots. 

She’d rise out of bed, but she can’t bear to lose sight of Rachel’s serene expression, so she reaches for her cell phone on the bedside table and reads her notifications: two texts, both from Santana. It’s all she can do to suppress an audible groan.

_Fab-gay, it appears that Rachel has absconded to New Haven. Prepare yourself, and spare me the details._

Then, later: _Whatever you do, just don’t let the Hobbit imprint on you. She talks about you enough already. It’s annoying as hell._

She’s contemplating a reply when she feels Rachel stir at her side. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Quinn muses, but the gesture feels awkward.

Rachel, bless her, seems not to have minded, rubbing her eyes and sitting up after a spell. “I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of sleeping in your bed,” she says, a little diffidently. 

Quinn rubs the back of her neck. “Oh, no, it’s fine, Rach. I must’ve fallen asleep during the movie. You could’ve woken me, you know.” 

Rachel smiles. “You looked so calm, though. It would’ve been a shame.” She colors a little. “God, that sounded creepy, didn’t it? I’m sorry.”

“Maybe a little?” Quinn hops off the bed and drops her phone on the bedside table. “Anyway, you’re forgiven. I might’ve been thinking the same thing this morning.” 

Quinn’s mind reels as she hears the words fall from her lips. Is she _actually_ trying to flirt with Rachel? It strikes her as particularly foolhardy, given that mere hours ago, she was comforting the barely consolable girl in her grief. 

Rachel doesn’t seem to mind, though. “Well, that’s good to know, if I’m ever given any parts requiring me to feign sleep. At least I can rest assured I won’t appear ridiculous in my repose.” 

Quinn’s chest flutters with the glimpse of the Rachel Berry she knows – and yes, kind of – loves. She’s pretty sure she’s beaming ridiculously, so she turns away and asks, “Anything in particular you’d like to do for breakfast?” 

While Rachel borrows Quinn’s shower caddy and makes off for the girl’s bathroom (in a pair of Quinn’s sleep shorts that nearly take her breath away), Quinn hesitantly dials Santana’s number. 

“Well, to what to I owe the honor, Miss Fabray?” Santana says mockingly. She sounds almost like a Bond villain, and there would’ve been a time when that sent a shiver down Quinn’s spine. Now, she’s mostly content to chuckle. 

“Yeah, I know, I should’ve called yesterday. So do either of you know why Rachel happened to show up on my doorstep?”

Santana laughs. “I was just as thrown as you when Hummel called me, saying he’d come back to the apartment to find a Metro North envelope on Rachel’s desk and no trace of the Hobbit anywhere.”

“She seriously didn’t say anything?” Quinn asks, nonplussed.

“Not to me, at least. But, then again, we’re hardly bosom buddies. Come to think of it, she _was_ on my laptop the other night when Hummel and I had a drunk movie marathon.”

Quinn can hear the sharp clicking of a keyboard. “And I’m going to venture that she was hunting for an address?” she asks dryly. 

“Yep. And she obviously found it. Damn thing plied me with tequila to get it, too. She’s a handful, your Berry.”

“Wait, _my_ Berry? Since when is she _my_ Berry?” Quinn asks incredulously. 

“You’re seriously going to pretend you don’t have the hots for her? Denial is not a good look for you, Q.” 

“It’s… an innocent crush, that’s it,” Quinn admits reluctantly. “And believe me, it’s not like I asked for it.” 

“How many times am I going to have to sit through this conversation, while we all wait for you to finish your tortured little Mimi-Roger dance?” 

“Santana, did you actually just make a _Rent_ reference? Wow, maybe living with Kurt and Rachel is rubbing off on you.”

“Save me the snark, Q. I could say the same of your Liberal Arts escapade, but we both know you were gay for Berry long before that.”

Quinn sighs defeatedly. “Yeah, well, it’s not going to happen, San. Somehow I don’t think the best way to grieve Finn is to hook up with his _other_ ex-girlfriend.”

“Well, you’d have that in common. And isn’t mourning supposed to _bring people together_?” Santana quips.

“Santana,” Quinn clucks reproachfully. “I know we both weren’t Finn’s biggest fans or anything, but I doubt he’d enjoy the idea of his two exes getting involved.”

“Are you kidding me? If there is an afterlife, I’m sure he’d have a front-row seat to the epic—”

“If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, I’m just gonna cut you off there. Anyway, I’ve got to go, I think Rachel’s at the door.” 

“Fine, don’t take my advice,” Santana huffs. Her voice, when she speaks again, is more serious. “Anyway, thanks for – you know – taking care of her. Hummel and I do our best, but it’s just not enough lately. Fuck, it pains me to admit, but you’re probably what she needs right now, Fabray.” 

“Thanks.” 

Rachel’s cheery smile greets her as she opens the door to her dorm room, dressed in an assortment of Quinn’s clothes that is not unbecoming. “I also may have taken the liberty of picking out an outfit.”

“I can see that,” Quinn replies, a note of genuine surprise in her voice.

“Normally, I would have brought a change of clothes, but I honestly didn’t think I’d be staying.” Rachel searches Quinn’s expression with a distinct pout. “You’re not mad, are you?”

Quinn laughs. Rachel’s taken a blue linen dress she’s half-forgotten about and paired it with rust-colored leggings that are far more suited to Rachel’s legs than her own. “You look spectacular, Rach. Of course I don’t mind.” 

Rachel does a mock-curtsey. There’s a dose of levity in their exchange that both thrills and terrifies Quinn. No matter how easy it is between them, Quinn always has a premonition that their exchange will end in tears. 

She’s awkwardly shuffling around the room, collecting the pieces of an outfit to wear, when Rachel speaks again. “Quinn, you don’t know how glad I am to be here. Thank you for letting me stay.”

She shoots a backwards glance at Rachel, who is sitting on the edge of Quinn’s bed, returning her gaze with an expression Quinn can’t quite place. “It’s nothing, really,” Quinn replies, nearly dropping the cardigan she’s handing to Rachel. 

It’s going to be a long morning.

Quinn borrows a friend’s car and drives them to an out-of-the-way café for brunch, which turns out to be a big hit with Rachel. Quinn has endured some awkward stretches of silence, but she can feel herself relaxing in Rachel’s presence. Rachel’s talking animatedly about some restaurant in New York she visited with Brody last spring, but Quinn can’t get past the way the light catches Rachel in all the right places, giving her a glow that’s positively captivating. 

“Earth to Quinn,” Rachel laughs, causing Quinn to blush at being caught unawares. 

“Sorry, I guess my mind was elsewhere.” She recovers somewhat. “Not that your fascinating comparison of New York cuisines was anything less than engaging.” 

Rachel’s smile is surprisingly wry. “Plotting ways to get rid of me already? That’s awfully poor etiquette for a host.” 

Quinn grins. “Nah, just admiring the general splendor of the room, or something like that.” 

Rachel sips her orange juice gingerly. “Or thinking about a certain someone?” Her tone is playful, but Quinn’s insides are already knotted and she nearly chokes on her omelet. 

“I’m… not seeing anyone, if that’s what you’re after. Honest.” She wants to ask, _What gave you that impression?_ but she’s afraid she can’t manage the simple task of speaking at the moment. 

Rachel hums through pursed lips. “So my intelligence was wrong.”

Quinn can’t help but smile. “You act like my life is some inscrutable arena that requires an act of spying in order to unfurl my secrets.” She ignores the fact that there may be some truth to that and presses on. “If you wanted to know something, you could do the normal friendly thing and ask.” 

There’s a spell of silence between them as Rachel finishes her bite. “I just thought you might’ve, you know, slept with a certain roommate of mine at Will and Emma’s wedding is all. But I’ve apparently been led astray.” 

Quinn can’t help but reply quickly, “And where the hell did you hear that?”

The vehemence in Quinn’s voice surprises them both. “Um, I didn’t? I may have been snooping through Santana’s computer to get your address and I came across a certain e-mail exchange….” 

_This is not happening_ , Quinn thinks dully. She’s torn between flat-out denying their dalliance and telling Rachel everything, though she knows either option is frankly unsuitable, given Rachel’s tenuous emotional state. 

“I might as well go ahead and admit it: yes, it’s true. But it’s not what you think,” Quinn replies, a little caustically. 

Rachel seems awestruck, perhaps a little hurt. “And what do I think?”

“I don’t know, that I’m infatuated with Santana?” Quinn sighs. “I’m sorry, that was unkind. I just wasn’t quite prepared to be explaining my choice in sexual partners. Not this visit, at least.”

“So you _were_ planning on telling me eventually?” Rachel asks, a hint of surprise evident in her tone. 

“Of course I was, Rach. It’s just… kind of complicated.”

“But you’re not in love with her,” Rachel states evenly, as if testing the waters.

“God no. It was just a one-time deal between two lonely people, nothing more.” 

She can feel Rachel scrutinizing her. Lifetimes ago, she might’ve left with a dramatic flourish, repaid Rachel in kind; but this is different, so she doesn’t falter under Rachel’s gaze. When Rachel softens, Quinn feels a release of the knot in her chest. 

“I’m sorry, I guess I shouldn’t have pried, Quinn. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Quinn shrugs. “I just didn’t expect to be blindsided, is all. On the plus side, I don’t have to kill Santana for revealing our little tryst, since you found out about it on your own.”

A small laugh escapes Rachel. “I’m sorry, it’s just so weird, imagining the two of you.”

“Is it, though?” Quinn asks, barely suppressing a chuckle of her own. “I dunno, I think she has a weakness for blondes.” 

“And what about you?” Rachel asks coyly. 

“I’m not sure I’m ready to have that conversation,” Quinn replies dryly. 

Rachel’s eyes narrow, not unkindly, at Quinn’s attempt at evasion. When she speaks, though, her tone is light. “Well, when you _are_ ready, I’m sure there are a whole bevy of girls at Yale who would love to have that conversation. There’s a reason it’s called the Gay Ivy.” 

Quinn can’t help but smile at Rachel’s attempt at encouragement. “I’m aware, Rachel. But I’m afraid I’ve sworn off dating in the meantime.” 

“Yeah, me too,” Rachel says, crestfallen. 

Quinn places her hand atop Rachel’s. “It’s okay to take your time. There’s no harm in taking a break from the dating scene. I’ve been living like a nun for the past few months, and it’s actually quite peaceful.”

Rachel can’t help but laugh. “Are you thinking about starting a Celibacy Club on the Yale campus, Quinn Fabray?” 

Quinn extends her neck in a mocking fashion. “Well, Rachel Berry, I wouldn’t exactly rule it out.” 

When they return to the Yale campus, the weather has taken a turn for the chillier, so Rachel suggests they wait it out in Quinn’s dorm room. It’s not like Quinn hasn’t offered to accompany Rachel to the more touristy parts of New Haven, but she has to admit it’s surprisingly nice, reading for her midterms with Rachel nestled in the crook of her arm, humming gently as she prepares for an audition. 

“It’s nice to do something so… normal, for once,” Rachel declares, gazing up at Quinn. “Don’t you wish we’d done more of this in high school?”

Quinn’s laugh is gentle. “I don’t know if I could have managed ‘normal’ in high school.” 

“Yeah, me either,” Rachel agrees, her laughter reverberating onto Quinn’s chest. Quinn slides her arm down to Rachel’s back, willing her heart not to race. She’s quiet, but the silence between them is unencumbered, which she’s grateful for. 

“Did you mean it before, when you said you were lonely?” Rachel asks after a moment. 

“I guess,” Quinn answers. “It’s hard to say whether I am anymore, but I was, you know, at the time.” 

“Hmm.” Rachel’s breathing is still. “I sometimes feel that way, too, even with Kurt and Santana around all the time. I guess I just didn’t expect that about moving to the city.”

Her confession prompts Quinn to rub small circles down Rachel’s spine, a small attempt at a comforting gesture. “I guess I know a little of what that’s like. When I said my dance card wasn’t at all full last night, I wasn’t exaggerating.” 

“I guess we’re quite the pair, then,” Rachel says smoothly, inching herself closer to rest her head on Quinn’s chest. 

“Yeah, I guess we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from "Argonauts" by Hospitality


	5. And I fear what will happen when the road fails to flow under me

Rachel leans her head against the train window and breathes the last insistent trace of the chilly New Haven air. Quinn had walked her to the station, and if she squints, she can see Quinn’s form on the platform, scarf and unruly hair both flapping in the wind. Rachel wonders how anyone could look so lovely in so ordinary a moment; but then the train begins to move and the moment has passed – Rachel is alone again. 

It had been a good weekend. She still hadn’t a clue why Quinn was absent from Finn’s funeral, but the lack of knowledge no longer taunted her insistently. Now, as she closed her eyes, she could see Quinn’s gentle smiles and easy manner, the way she and Rachel had fallen into friendship again as easily as Rachel might fall into a song she hadn’t sung in some time. 

The way they parted had given her renewed hope: Quinn’s arms around her, steady and comforting; a whispered _I really missed you, Rach_ in her ear, all husky and raw. In spite of the Sunday afternoon bustle, they had found a moment of clarity, of privacy – Rachel’s hesitation as she pulled away from Quinn’s embrace, the way Rachel’s fingers still felt the memory of entwining with Quinn’s as she walked towards the train.

It would’ve felt _romantic_ , had it been anyone else. She tries to banish the thought almost as soon as it occurs. Quinn may have had some strange little dalliance with Santana, but it hardly leaves room for the possibility of anything untoward between them. Besides, the intensity between them had _purpose_ , had history; if it were anyone else, Rachel’s mind would have a thousand questions – but instead it’s quiet, lulling her into the throes of sleep with slinking insistence. 

She doesn’t dream much, on the train. There’s a vague ghosting of lips across her forehead as she awakens with a jolt, but the thread of her dream vanishes as she empties out of the train. Kurt is waiting for her, his look stern but his hug warm. They stop for dinner at a ritzy place neither can really afford; he doesn’t ask much about Quinn, and she doesn’t offer much. She loses herself in his proffered conversation about some Broadway hunk slipping Kurt his number at the stage door, and just like that, her life has returned to normal. 

She coasts through the next few days, her visit with Quinn having boosted her morale considerably by Kurt and Santana’s estimations. She neglects to tease Santana about her liaison with Quinn, half-afraid that Santana will spill details that she’d rather not know about Quinn’s prowess (or worse, her own). Santana avoids her in turn, possibly because Rachel had gotten her drunk just to use her computer, and possibly because she’s afraid of the myriad secrets Rachel might’ve dug up while doing so. 

Quinn had texted her almost as soon as she’d gotten on the train, and she and Rachel had fallen rather quickly into a smooth rhythm of conversation, only pausing occasionally out of respect for Quinn’s midterm studying attempts. Sure, she’s had to survive a few impertinent looks from her roommates when her phone goes off again, but it’s been worth it to rekindle her dynamic with Quinn. 

Unfortunately, it all comes to a head when Rachel proposes to invite Quinn to stay in their apartment in ten days’ time. They’re all eating dinner on the couch – two vegan plates, and Santana’s piled high with enough meat to make Rachel gag – when Rachel nonchalantly broaches the subject. When Kurt and Santana share a conspiratorial look, she knows it may be more difficult a conversation than she anticipated. 

“Look, Rachel,” Kurt starts. “We’ve tried to support you through this – this _difficult time_ – as much as we can. But the thought of sharing my domicile with Quinn Fabray, who didn’t even deign to attend my brother’s funeral, frankly makes me ill.”

“Did she even tell you what she was doing that weekend?” Santana joins, her hand on Kurt’s shoulder as he wearily pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“No, but she didn’t need to. I told her it didn’t matter to me, as she was there to support me when I needed her that weekend.” Rachel’s response is diplomatic enough, but there’s something icy in her tone that she didn’t intend. 

Kurt swallows. “We all know you’re a very forgiving person. It’s one of your better qualities. But Santana and I saw how hurt you were by Quinn’s absence, and we just don’t want that to happen again.”

“It’s in your best interests, Berry,” Santana chimes. 

“How can you say that, Santana?” Rachel spews indignantly. “She’s your friend, or should I say your friend-with-benefits!”

Kurt’s reply is sharp as he turns to Santana. “Wait, wait, wait. You slept with Quinn Fabray? You know, Head Cheerleader, boyfriend snatcher, _Celibacy Club_ Quinn Fabray?”

Santana, meanwhile, is too busy giving Rachel what can only be appropriately described as a death glare. “Nice, Hobbit. Have you ever tried asking your new hero Quinn why she slept with me in the first place? I’m sure you’d be _very_ interested to know just why she’s taken up your friendship again.” 

“I don’t understand,” Rachel huffs. Kurt’s hand is now strategically placed atop Rachel’s shoulder as they’re both turned towards Santana, who’s perched defensively on the edge of the couch. 

“That makes two of us,” Kurt adds dully. 

“Hummel, not now. I thought we were supposed to be trying to pry her away from Fabray’s clutches?”

“I’d be very interested to know your motivation there,” Kurt quips angrily. “I agreed to discourage Rachel from pursuing Quinn’s friendship because you made a good case that it would end in disaster. I didn’t think you’d have ulterior motives.” 

“Back up, bitches.” Santana’s tone is demanding. “One, what I did or didn’t do with Quinn Fabray is my own fucking business. Two, I never said it would end in disaster. I merely stated that Quinn’s presence in our apartment so soon would be awkward as hell, and that I thought it would upset Berry.” 

“Like that makes it any better,” Rachel retorts, arms crossed. “I don’t know what you mean about Quinn’s reason for being friends again, but I do know that she’s been patient and kind with me, and that’s more than I can say about a lot of people in my life right now.”

Kurt refuses to meet her eyes, and Santana stares with pursed lips. “Look, Berry, I know that’s a thinly veiled reference to our behavior, and I get it. We’ve kind of ignored your needs. Hummel threw himself into his work and I didn’t feel like dealing with either of you. If you want an apology, fine, you’ve got one. But I think you might want to avoid investing too much in your relationship with Fabray, is all.” 

Kurt shrugs as he deposits his plate in the sink. “Whatever you do, Rachel, be careful. That’s all I ask.” 

“It’s not like she’s my girlfriend!” Rachel protests, as Kurt and Santana retreat to their respective corners. Neither of them seems to pay her any attention. 

She’s about to text Quinn when she hears a muffled conversation Santana’s having.

“What the fuck, Fabray,” Santana is saying. She’s not close enough to hear Quinn’s reply, but she can’t hear a raised voice on the other end, so she takes it as a good sign.

“I don’t care if Berry invited you here, do you have any idea how much I’ve had to protect you lately? Hummel can hardly stand the mention of your name, and when Berry started asking all these questions about your conspicuous absence at Hudson’s funeral, do you know how many times I played coy for you?” 

There’s a long pause, and Santana’s voice measurably softens. “I know, and I’m sorry. It’s not like I’m not rooting for you. I just thought she’d keep coming back down to New Haven until things blew over here.” 

“All right, all right,” Santana says finally. “Yeah, well, she’s a handful, that’s for fucking sure. I just hope you know what you’re doing.” 

Rachel retreats to her room before Santana can realize she’s been overheard. She shuts off her phone and dives into bed, her mind full of questions she can’t seem to answer. _Quinn can’t be the villain_ , she repeats over and over again in her head, until it starts to feel true. 

The next day, she leaves a short voicemail on Quinn’s phone. She knows Quinn has just finished mid-terms, but it’s important. 

_Call me_ , she says. _We need to talk_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from "Couches in Alleys" by Styrofoam


	6. Don't you lock when you're fleeing

Quinn has replayed Rachel’s voicemail no fewer than ten times over the course of an hour. She’s in a mercifully empty dorm room, accompanied only by her own growing panic and the bile rising torturously in her throat. 

_Rachel knows_. She can’t quite quell the thought, though she’s able to acknowledge that there are a number of things Rachel might feel the need to talk about that don’t involve Quinn’s foolish infatuation. Still, there’s no comfort that, or in her first instinct either, which is to avoid the problem until it goes away. Rachel, of course, deserves more from her than that.

It’s why she calls Rachel back anyway. And Rachel, being Rachel, picks up on the first ring. 

“Rachel?” Quinn asks, in lieu of hello. Her tongue feels thick and useless.

“I see you received my voicemail.” Rachel’s reply is more composed than she’d expected, but there’s a curt edge to her voice that makes Quinn’s stomach churn.

“I did. That’s why I’m calling you back,” Quinn says gently, awkwardly. 

“While I’m not sure how to broach the subject of this undoubtedly difficult conversation, I feel that I owe it to you to be direct. I overheard Santana having an exchange with you last night.”

Quinn sighs. The fact that Rachel sounds more like _Rachel_ should be a good sign, but it isn’t. 

When Quinn doesn’t speak, Rachel continues. “A conversation which, from my end, seemed to imply that Santana knows a lot more about what’s been going on with you than I do. I was touched, really touched, by your behavior last weekend; you have to know that you lifted my spirits considerably. Being in New Haven with you was nothing short of amazing. And it sucks, it really does, because I thought we were finally _friends_.”

Rachel’s voice is choked with emotion, and it plunges Quinn’s stomach into unabating misery. “What do you want me to say, Rach?” Quinn’s voice escapes as a half-sob. 

“I trusted you, Quinn,” Rachel retorts angrily. “I was vulnerable. I let you in, and you _let_ me. What am I supposed to do now?” 

It takes Quinn a moment to formulate a coherent thought. When she speaks, her voice is quiet, so quiet she imagines Rachel on the other end, straining to decipher her careful words. “You want to know why Santana knows? Fine, I’ll tell you. Then you have to promise not to contact me again, Rachel. I won’t keep hurting you like this.”

Rachel seems to ponder her offer. “Fine,” she replies coolly. 

“Santana impersonated a member of my _school_ , Rachel. When she didn’t hear back from me, she called my sister Frannie in California, who naturally told her everything. Told her how I had to skip classes in order to help fly my mother out to Palm Springs, where Frannie was pregnant with twins. Told her how there were complications with the delivery, and how we spent four days around the clock in the hospital between the NICU and Frannie’s room, scared out of our minds. Told her how Mom got so drunk and belligerent that I had to check my mother into rehab while Frannie was in surgery. How I had to pick up the pieces of my broken family to keep us together, while simultaneously keeping up with lectures at the goddamn Ivy League school I can barely afford.” 

“Quinn,” Rachel chokes. “I had no idea.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Quinn’s voice is mirthless. “Because by the time I got my family’s shit together, I had finally heard about Finn’s death. The funeral had, of course, already passed. And here’s the kicker: everyone in Lima already assumed that I was just a royal bitch who couldn’t be bothered to mourn Finn with the rest of the universe. So I deleted my Facebook, and did the only thing I could think to do: I called his mom and told her everything. Carole, thank god, was unbelievably kind. Knowing that one person didn’t blame me for my absence made it easier to bear everyone else that did. When Santana told me how crushed you were, how beside yourself with grief, I knew I couldn’t tell you. I wanted to ease your burden, Rachel. I figured it would be easier for you if you could hate me again. What I didn’t expect was you showing up on my doorstep and forgiving me like I was worthy of it.”

Rachel’s quietly sobbing, now. “I— I never hated you.” 

“That’s beside the point, Rachel. The point is, Santana agreed to help me protect you. She didn’t understand why I chose not to tell you, but since she knows how much I care about you, she’s quietly been smoothing things over as best she can. Which was, unfortunately, good enough until now.” 

“You— you care about me?” 

“Of course I do. A lot more than you know. Which is why I have to put a stop to this.”

Rachel’s voice is pleading. “What if I… what if I _need_ you?” 

“You’re strong, Rachel. We both know that.” Her voice falters, but she lets it. “God, you’re _so_ strong. You don’t even know. There’s so much you don’t know.” 

“So tell me. Just tell me and I— I promise not to see you anymore, like you said,” Rachel begs. 

It’s hard to deny Rachel the truth. Quinn draws in one last breath before her undoing, the same way she did after hearing Rachel sing for the first time freshman year. When she understood she was well and truly fucked and there were no cards in her hand left to play. “Well… you don’t know that you snore, for one. You don’t know that there’s this little moment after you sing, in between your last note and the applause that follows, where you look so unbelievably radiant that half the room falls in love with you. You also don’t know that Shelby lets me play tapes of you singing to Beth when I visit, and that Shelby and I have to try really hard not to cry when Beth tries to imitate your voice. And you don’t know that— you don’t know that I’m in love with you.” 

The line falls silent apart from Rachel’s steady, quiet breathing. There are half-dry streaks of tears down Quinn’s face that she doesn’t bother to wipe; if this is going to be the last time, she wants to make it count. 

“So I’ve told you everything I can, Rachel. One day, you’ll understand that this was the only way for us to move on, to be happy.” 

She’s about to hang up when a small, strangled voice emerges on the other end. “What if I don’t want that? What if I can’t let you go like this?”

“I’ve given you everything I can.” Quinn’s insistence is such a broken thing, but it’s all she has. “It has to be enough.” Her finger lingers over the ‘End’ button on her phone. 

“I’ll miss you, Quinn.”

“Yeah, me too, Rach.”

When she finally pushes the button, it’s like a thread has snapped within her; she combs through discarded clothes in her dresser drawer until she finds her prize: the lone pack of cigarettes left from her punk days of rebellion. The air outside is thick with rain, and soon the smoke lazily mingles with the drops of rain that fall too insistently for autumn. 

When she’s out of cigarettes, she sleeps and sleeps. There’s a single missed text, from Santana: _If you did what I just think you did, I’m going to fucking cut you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from "Beach Baby" by Bon Iver


	7. Damn, you always treat me like a mountain, stranger

It’s been two months since her fateful, final conversation with Quinn, Rachel thinks to herself on the subway. She hasn’t told either Santana or Kurt, but she suspects Santana knows anyway. The weather’s grown colder and she hugs her arms tightly to her chest, eying passersby with a suspicion she’s cultivated during her tenure in New York. During the long commutes, she’ll sometimes fashion new personas for herself, new ways to carry her limbs and accent her speech; when being Rachel Berry gets too complicated, it’s a sleight-of-hand that always lightens her steps. But today she’s simply ordinary, all chipped nail polish and nails bitten to the quick. Her hand flickers over the “Call” button, but she knows better. 

She has enough respect for Quinn to know that, if she did call, it would go unanswered, so she hasn’t tried. Instead, she’s put on a brave face to the world, and things have mostly been going her way. She has a bit part in an Off-Broadway production slated for February, and she’s had more romantic interests lately than she knows what to do with. There are only a few days left until Winter Break, and her fathers have been so damn cheerful about having her home again soon that she almost succumbs to their infectious holiday spirit. Any residual bouts of melancholy in their daughter – which are fewer and more far between – they automatically ascribe to Finn’s passing, as she has neglected to tell them that the head cheerleader who so mercilessly tormented her in her early high school years has miraculously fallen in love with her as of late. 

Her fathers join Santana and Kurt in watching Rachel perform in the Winter Showcase on the last night before Winter Break. She puts everything she has into the performance and earns raucous applause for the effort, but she’s left feeling empty accepting her accolades. Every blonde woman in the audience that isn’t Quinn taunts her, and while she dedicated her performance to Finn’s memory, as she should have, it wasn’t his ghost she sung to. That stings worst of all. 

Something her daddy says during her first dinner back in Lima, however, seems to shake her from her stupor. “Hiram, you know the lovely two-story on Elm Avenue that you always liked? I just drove past it on my way home – it’s for sale.” 

Hiram chews thoughtfully. “Doesn’t one of your high school classmates live there, Rachel? That sullen cheerleader type with the boy’s name.”

“Quinn?” Rachel says quickly, dropping her fork atop the half-empty plate of pasta before her. 

“That’s the one,” Leroy answers. “What ever happened to her?”

“It’s a long story,” Rachel starts to say, through barely suppressed tears. “She’s at Yale.”

“Yale?” Hiram asks incredulously. 

“Hiram,” Leroy clucks reproachfully. “I’m so sorry we upset you, my star. I know there must be some painful memories.”

“It’s not— not about high school.” Rachel wipes a few stray streaks of tears. “She’s amazing, actually. She’s changed so much.”

“Then why are you crying, honey?” Hiram asks. 

“No reason,” Rachel replies through a forced smile. “Like you said, just… a complicated history between us. And, you know, Finn.”

At the mention of Finn’s name, her fathers’ expressions sober and they nod, almost in unison. She feels guilty for invoking Finn’s name whenever she needs an excuse to be emotional, but she’s not about to recount her torturous relationship with Quinn – at least not now. Finn, at least, would have understood that. 

She trudges up the stairs with a heavy stride and listlessly plops onto her bed, allowing her thoughts to overtake her. How could she have been so blind to Quinn’s affections in the first place? She thinks back to their weekend in New Haven, on Saturday night, when she’d dragged Quinn to some two-bit karaoke bar she’d found on the Internet – how it had poured on their walk back, and ducking into a poorly lit bus stop on the edge of Yale’s campus, they’d sought solace from the rain. 

_Quinn smiles at her serenely; there’s water dripping from her shaggy, sodden hair, and her breath seems to come in heavy rasps from all the running. She doesn’t seem to mind or notice either. Rachel could trace the intermingling of their breaths, now visible in the cold night air through the burnt orange of the streetlamp. She sees how close they seem before she feels it – feels Quinn’s hand softly brush her wet bangs from her eyes._

_“Thanks,” she breathes, as Quinn’s hand traces a path down her cheek and is swiftly gone, leaving a lightness in Rachel’s chest that is hardly unwelcome._

_“You’re all wet,” Quinn observes with a wry smile._

_“And you’re not?”_

_“You ever see the Cheerios after one of Coach Sylvester’s rainy day practices? This is nothing.”_

_Rachel can’t quite focus on Quinn’s words, though, not with Quinn’s bright and easy smile so squarely in her field of vision. She beams like a beacon, ushering the storm-tossed Rachel somewhere warmer, better. “Well, at any rate, if you keep smiling at me like that, I’m not going to want to leave tomorrow.”_

_She hasn’t a clue why she says it, really. Quinn must know by now that Rachel finds her more beautiful than just about anybody, and saying so feels as innocent as complimenting the weather – it’s the truth, after all. But Rachel’s admission thickens the air between them, and Quinn’s smile becomes something less benign: something more slow and devilish. Almost seductive._

_“You’ve uncovered my plot, Berry. I’m afraid you’re my prisoner, now.”_

_Rachel swears she can see a hint of disappointment befall Quinn’s face when she announces, “Not if I beat you to your dorm, Quinn!” and races off._

There’s a soft knock on her door and her dad emerges with two mugs of hot chocolate, vegan marshmallows and all. His smile is kind, but Rachel knows he’s come here to retrieve the truth, to soothe both of her fathers’ anxieties. Neither of them has been one to treat her with kid-gloves, and Finn’s death hasn’t changed that; it’s a welcome feeling of rightness, of being home. She can hardly begrudge Kurt and Santana their distant ministrations of friendship, but her fathers always seem to know what she needs before she does. 

“Rachel, kiddo.” Hiram’s voice is warm, but halting. “I don’t mean to pry, but what’s got you so eaten up?”

Rachel chews on her bottom lip. “Let me guess – you and Daddy are worried?” 

Hiram sips his hot chocolate gingerly, diplomatically. “Of _course_ we are. We always worry. And if there’s something we can do to help…” 

“It’s not really about Finn,” she sighs after a moment. There’s a warm spot in her chest from the hot chocolate and her dad’s knitted brow – things she hadn’t even realized she’d missed in New York. “Quinn and I had a falling out, and I don’t know what I can do to fix it.”

“Wait a minute, I thought Quinn was the one we didn’t like?” 

Rachel can’t help but smile. “Dad, that’s ancient history between us.”

“Okay, so you and the head cheerleader, huh?”

Rachel nods. “You don’t even know, Dad. She’s— she’s the only one that’s always believed in me. Through everything. And she was there for me recently when no one else was.” 

Her father regards her thoughtfully. “Then what’s the problem?”

“She says she can’t keep hurting me anymore. I think she’s afraid to get close to people, especially people she’s hurt before.”

“Well, I certainly don’t blame her for not wanting to cause you any more pain. That’s awfully noble of her, in a way. But you don’t agree,” Hiram states evenly. 

“Of course I don’t! I want to be in her life, whatever the cost.” Rachel’s emphatic tone surprises them both. 

“Does _she_ know that, my star?” her Daddy calls, standing in the doorway. 

“I don’t know,” Rachel answers softly. The admission sits low in her chest, improbably heavy, but her fathers soon envelop her in their arms, and their steadying presence blankets her in a soothing wave of calm. 

She’s out of the door by eight-fifteen on a Saturday, the early hour possibly inconvenient given her plans for the day, but her nerves are quieted when she spies a large moving van in front of the Fabrays. She’d pulled back her polka-dotted covers a hair after six, and after dawdling on the elliptical as long as she could, the impulse to track down Quinn became too great, and she’d settled for the off chance that she’d end up waking Quinn and dooming her chance at reconciliation. 

She spends so long drumming her fingers on the steering wheel outside Quinn’s house that a mover taps on her window, concerned. 

His accent is crisp, unmistakably New York, and it feels oddly like home. “I don’t think the lady of the house is expecting anyone, doll. You might wanna knock instead.” 

It’s strange – she didn’t realize she’d been idling that long. Unfazed, she thanks him and ambles up the driveway, which is littered with boxes. She’s halfway to the door when Quinn steps out, a cigarette expertly perched on her lips. She lights it in one fell swoop. 

“I thought you quit.” The words escape Rachel’s lips before realizes how astoundingly inappropriate she must seem, driving up to Quinn’s doorstep, against her wishes, only to chastise her. 

Quinn exhales as she meets Rachel’s gaze, a hint of a laugh darkly flickering as the smoke pours from her lips. “Yeah, well, so did I.” Then, a beat later— “What do you want, Rachel?” 

Her tone is reminiscent of the days of pink hair and vandalism that Rachel had half-forgotten about. There’s a trace of a memory – some plot to get Quinn to rejoin Glee Club, tasting the smoke that Quinn exhaled when she’d less-than-graciously declined – that soon evaporates like the determined expression she was sure she’d been wearing only a minute before. 

“When I saw your house was up for sale, I—”

“Let me guess: you want to help me pack up years of delightfully shitty memories in hopes that we can start over,” Quinn interrupts implacably, tossing her cigarette. She makes to pass Rachel, but Rachel impulsively counters her, finger pointed accusingly. 

“You don’t get to walk away from me, Quinn.”

“Oh yes I do. You promised not to contact me, remember? As far as I’m concerned, there’s no conversation to have.” 

Rachel knows her face betrays the hurt she feels, but she says nothing as Quinn shuffles past her and mutters something to one of the deliverymen, who scowls impatiently. The day is cold, the sky matted with gray, and the prospect of starting her car and driving home is daunting. Frankly, she isn’t sure what behavior she’d expected of Quinn – but there’s a definite (and all too familiar) sting from their encounter. 

She’s all but opened the car door when she hears Quinn’s frantic tone – she’s too far away for Rachel to overhear everything, but her voice carries in a way Rachel suspects must have caused a few freshmen cheerleaders to quake at the knees.

 _“Santana, the moving van is here and you’re over an hour late. You know I can’t possibly afford to hire – fuck it, just don’t bother showing up.”_

The sight of Quinn – clad in a coat that’s easily three sizes too big, surrounded by the paraphernalia of an unhappy childhood against the backdrop of a home Rachel knows she hates – saddens her indelibly. She wills Quinn to meet her gaze before she drives away. She doesn’t want the last time she sees Quinn to be like _this_ , all disheveled and pained. 

Quinn bites the bottom of her lip and walks down the driveway, her boots echoing thinly on the pavement. “I wouldn't ask if I weren’t desperate,” is all she says. 

“Why don’t you call Noah for help? Or even Sam?” Rachel inquires plainly, but not unkindly. 

“Because you understand how fucked my life is right now, and they don’t. Because you showed up in spite of how horribly I’ve treated you, how horribly I continue to treat you. And because I need _you_ , not them.” Quinn’s cheeks are red from the cold, and in spite of the two large bags beneath Quinn’s eyes that tell Rachel she hasn’t been sleeping either, in spite of Quinn’s forlorn expression and the way she can’t meet Rachel’s gaze, she’s unbelievably beautiful in the flecks of morning light shining through the gray. 

“How can I help?” Rachel replies softly. There isn’t any other answer she can supply when it comes to Quinn. 

Quinn’s wounded expression falters, and for a brief moment, Rachel glimpses something unexpectedly tender beneath it that drags her mind back to Quinn’s confession – to the admission she’s been trying not to think too hard about. Still, it’s enough to evaporate the hurt from their previous exchange, to send a frightening thrum through her chest as she walks beside Quinn into the house. 

Quinn picked _her_. Quinn, for all her faults, loves _her_. 

It’s terrifying, and yet she can’t stop thinking about it. About Quinn. So when they sit side by side, sorting Judy Fabray’s old clothes into piles for the Salvation Army or storage, Rachel gently rests her hand atop Quinn’s: it’s a small gesture, but Quinn’s expression melts from stilted to genuine and warms something within Rachel. She doesn’t need to say anything – it’s always been this way between them, all weighty glances fraught with meaning. 

The only difference is, it didn’t used to feel like _this_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from "Bright Lanterns" by The Tallest Man on Earth


	8. What ghosts exist behind these attic walls?

Quinn rolls up her sleeves and surveys their progress: despite Rachel’s lack of obvious physical strength, her organizational acumen has whittled down the list of tasks Quinn needs to accomplish before the movers can roll out. Rachel’s incessant chattering had put Quinn at ease during some of the more emotionally charged tasks – cleaning out what remained of Russell’s office, for one – but now Rachel sits silently, packing up the cookie-cutter family photographs that had hung above the stairs. 

Quinn watches as Rachel fixates on an older photo taken during her middle school years: the face of Lucy that stares back at her, round-faced and beaming in braces. That easy, unencumbered grin is barely recognizable on herself, but its familiarity is clear – it’s the smile she sees when she looks at Beth. There’s a lump in her throat and a pit in her stomach; when Rachel’s soft gaze concentrates on Quinn instead, it’s all she can do to keep her composure.

“I’m glad you don’t have to be alone today,” Rachel says, kind and gentle as ever. 

“Not sure I deserve the company,” Quinn replies darkly, moving another box atop the stack going into storage. 

“Do you ever miss it?” Rachel’s voice is dreamy, thoughtful. 

“Miss what?” 

“Being Lucy.” Rachel’s eyes dart between Quinn and the photograph as she awaits an answer.

Quinn sits beside her, tossing a few more photographs into the box. “Not really. Being Quinn Fabray does come with its advantages. I try not to think about what life was like before. It’s like asking you if you miss being stuck in Lima.”

“Yeah.” Rachel’s voice is soft, guilty almost, but Quinn doesn’t press for an explanation. Their tentative truce is paper-thin, and if there’s anything she knows, it’s that treading carefully mitigates the risk that someone storms off in tears. 

It isn’t long before the movers leave Quinn with an (almost) empty house – there are a few boxes in her bedroom that she’ll store in her trunk for the time being, but other than that, her childhood home is bereft of her mother’s charms and father’s stilted orderliness in a way that feels oddly appropriate. There are shadows above the mantle and across the stairway where trinkets and photographs had hung in their perfect havens, now consigned to some box or another for eternity. Quinn half-expected that all the acrimony and repression in her family would’ve left an obvious, tangible mark on the place – but all has been swept clean. 

Even though it’s not worthy of much of a send-off, an idea flickers in Quinn’s mind that’s almost apropos, given the circumstances. She rummages through one of the boxes until she discovers the remnants of Russell’s alcohol cabinet. She doggedly leafs around for some plastic cups and finds Rachel in the foyer, organizing a stack of boxes with a persistence uniquely her own. 

“I think this calls for a toast,” Quinn announces, a faint half-smile emerging as she surveys Rachel’s expression. It’s an odd mix of stunned surprise and motherly concern that’s not totally unbecoming. 

“I’m not sure that’s the best—”

“You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to,” Quinn offers. “But I can’t think of any better way to bid this place farewell than by raiding my father’s distinguished liquor collection.” 

With this, Rachel smiles; it’s halting and it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but she’s trying, and Quinn – God help her – is charmed. She extends a tentative hand to reach for the drink Quinn has proffered, and when they clink cups, it takes a moment before Rachel’s composure eases and she brings it to her lips.

“I would have toasted in your honor, but I suspect that’s a little premature, given the way I’ve treated you lately,” Quinn remarks dully, after the second drink has left a delicate burning feeling in the back of her throat. 

She refills Rachel’s glass and allows the words to settle into the air between them; she’s not exactly expecting an answer, but when Rachel gives one, she’s relieved.

“I think you’re trying to protect yourself.” Rachel meets her eyes and there’s something in it Quinn doesn’t immediately recognize, some boldness once dormant, now resurrected. “But it won’t work.”

“And why’s that?” Quinn asks casually, trying to ignore the way she’s hanging on Rachel’s every word. Trying to ignore how pathetically fast her heart insists on beating. 

“Because… I don’t know. It just won’t.” Rachel’s smile is slow and inscrutable as she sets her empty cup atop one of the boxes. “I know you better than that.” 

They’ve almost finished hauling the remainder of the boxes into Quinn’s trunk when Rachel pauses thoughtfully in the foyer. “Can I ask you something?” 

Quinn should say no. “Yeah, anything. I owe you that, at least.”

“What are you doing for the holidays, if you’re not staying here?” 

They’re halfway down the driveway when Quinn answers. Her steps are slow, measured. “I was thinking I’d just take the car back up to New Haven.” 

Rachel’s brow furrows. She’s ditched her coat and is wearing the blue linen dress she’d stolen from Quinn’s dorm closet and an oversized woolen sweater. There had been playful text exchanges about her holding the dress hostage, but the way it favors Rachel’s figure, Quinn knows she’s unlikely to ask for it back – especially given their delicate friendship. Every time she sees Rachel set against the backdrop of the bleak winter sun, time stills: it’s like Quinn’s brain is trying to hold onto the time she has left with Rachel, trying to recapitulate each exchange as if it’s their last – before Quinn has to let Rachel go. 

“I thought your mom and Frannie were in California?” Rachel asks placidly, opening the car door for Quinn to cram a few stray boxes into her backseat. 

“They are. But it’s too— well, we all agreed that it would be easier for my mom and Frannie if they didn’t have another houseguest. And anyway, I’ve got assignments from last semester to make up, so it’s probably better to have some relative peace and quiet.” Quinn’s voice is hollow and unconvincing, but the façade is all she has to offer Rachel. 

But Rachel’s smarter than that. “But the dorms won’t be open until January.” 

“I know, Rach. A friend of a friend has offered me his couch. He’ll be in Whistler until after the New Year, so his landlord has agreed to lend me a key.” The car door slams abruptly. “You don’t have to worry about me,” Quinn insists limply. “I’ll be fine.”

“You can’t spend the holidays alone – that’s just absurd!” Rachel’s voice fills the foyer, its shrill reverberations echoing in the disquieting emptiness. 

“I won’t be alone. I have friends who’ll be in town in a few days,” Quinn lies, her voice so weak it barely carries. There’s a vision of Quinn eating Chinese take-out on a pull-out bed on Christmas, with only Netflix to keep her company. It’s a sad thought, but it’s probably not even the worst Christmas Quinn will have had. 

Quinn can’t meet Rachel’s insistent gaze. “Quinn,” Rachel breathes. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor; there’s a dusty patch on Rachel’s tights, mid-calf, and it’s there that Quinn’s eyes rest for what seems like an eternity.

“Can I ask you something else?” There’s a hesitance in Rachel’s voice that surprises Quinn. She looks smaller, but older. 

“Yeah, whatever you want.”

“Would you say yes if I invited you to spend the holidays with me?”

Quinn wants to be civil as she studies Rachel. She bites her lip so hard she can almost taste blood, and there’s a dimly formed thought in the back of her mind – where nearly all her bad decisions come from – that tells her she can just tell Rachel to fuck off and it would all be over with. But there’s no energy left for rebellion; there’s only a hollow void in her stomach that aches to be filled – with what, Quinn isn’t sure, but she imagines what it would be like, singing carols with Rachel and her dads. It might be selfish, but Quinn wants it anyway. 

Which is why she has to say no. “You don’t want that,” Quinn replies quietly. 

“What if I do?” Rachel’s voice is earnest, so much so that it tugs at Quinn’s resolve. 

“You might think you do, but you and I both know it won’t end well. I won’t hold it against you if you change your mind. We’ll still be friends when you get back to New York.”

There’s a spark in Rachel’s features, something subtle but luminous, and it’s all Quinn can do to banish the thought of wanting to kiss her. “We’re friends?” she asks softly. 

“Yeah, we are,” Quinn says solidly, taking a seat next to Rachel. “When I was on the phone with you, I thought— I thought I could spare you additional pain if I just cut you off.”

“That seems to be a recurring theme,” Rachel mutters wryly. It’s so uncharacteristic, coming from Rachel, that Quinn laughs. 

“And I seem to keep apologizing like that will make a difference.”

Rachel shuffles closer. “But it does. It’s not your fault that I keep throwing a wrench into all your plans to abandon our friendship.”

Quinn smiles, but there’s a hint of sadness in Rachel’s words that she can’t quite shake. “So if I were to say yes,” she begins softly, “it wouldn’t make you… uncomfortable?”

“Because of what you said to me on the phone?”

Neither of them can really say it, so Quinn does. She hopes Rachel won’t flinch, but she can’t be sure unless it’s out in the open between them. “Yeah, about the whole… having feelings for you thing?” She doesn’t mean for it to sound like a question, but it does. Quinn has never felt more like a thirteen-year-old boy than she does now, trying not to fidget as she lets the admission hang in the air between them. 

Rachel’s smile is shy. Quinn hopes it means that she’s flattered. “I must admit, at first, I had a hard time believing it was true. It seemed unbelievable that someone like you could want _me_.” She gazes at her tights, finally appearing to notice the patch of dust, which she rubs at sheepishly.

“You’re… very worthy of being loved.” Quinn’s not sure if it’s the whiskey, or the pristine emptiness of a house that can’t hurt her anymore, but she feels like talking, so she does. “I hope that, one day, you’ll be able to look in the mirror and see yourself the way I do.” 

Rachel’s phone rings – Quinn’s never been so happy for a reprieve. Her cheeks are burning and she needs distance from having to address the way Rachel makes her feel. She mills around the kitchen and hops onto the granite countertop as Rachel chats animatedly with one of her fathers. 

“Yes, Daddy, I’m still at Quinn’s.” There’s a pause, a muffled voice on the other end. “Of course. And would you and Dad mind setting another place for tonight’s dinner? I have reason to expect that Quinn will be joining us. And I’ve also asked her to spend the holidays with us.”

There’s another pause, this one considerably longer. “Yes, hello to you too, Dad. She doesn’t have anywhere else to go, that’s why. And yes, I’m sure. I promise.”

Quinn can’t physically see Rachel from her vantage point, but she can almost see the expressions behind Rachel’s words – there’s a sense of familiarity there that both warms Quinn and fills her with dread. And getting to keep Rachel in her life, even as a friend, is worth more than Quinn deserves. 

She lets her eyes close and exhales; when she opens them, Rachel is standing in front of her, beaming like she’s just been nominated for a Tony. 

“So I take it that’s a yes?” Rachel asks, the faintest trace of hesitation in her voice. She’s been bruised so many times before, yet she’s indefatigable even now. 

Quinn loves her all the more for it – and nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from "Scientist Studies" by Death Cab for Cutie


	9. This part's for my love of old

“So you’ll promise to meet me at my house as soon as you’re done sorting out the storage situation?” Rachel searches Quinn’s expression for any hint of deception – it’s not that she doesn’t trust Quinn, but there’s a lingering image of Quinn crossing the Ohio state line with abandon, headed for New Haven. It’s a possibility a little too real to deny. 

“As soon as I’m done, I’ll head right over.” Quinn’s smile is unburdened. True, her hair is unmistakably tousled, and the bags underneath her eyes give Quinn a fierceness that’s still a little intimidating, but Rachel has enough faith to believe Quinn’s words. 

“And you know how to get to my house, right?”

Quinn laughs. “Of course I do. After all the shit I’ve put you through the past few months, I feel like this is my chance to get it right, you know? I’m not going anywhere, Rach. I’m too tired to fight anymore.”

There’s an honesty in Quinn’s expression that has Rachel rapt – she’s stunned the unguarded words, the faint curl of Quinn’s lips, all of it. Her tongue stumbles over the words she wants to say, so she mumbles something else entirely. “Don’t let me down, Quinn. I need this just as much as you do.”

Quinn’s face sobers. Gone is the youthful Head Cheerleader, the anguished pregnant teen, the status queen – all the roles she’s seemed born to play pale in comparison to what Rachel sees. Someone wounded, wiser. Someone who could take her breath away, given half a chance. 

Quinn plucks an errant strand of hair that’s fallen across her forehead and nods awkwardly. “Yeah, I know. I guess I should just get a move on before I get the urge to keep apologizing _ad infinitum_.” 

Rachel smiles. “Don’t think you can charm me with your fancy Ivy League vocabulary. I fully expect to see your car in my driveway in no more than an hour.”

Quinn does a mock-salute before opening the car door. “Yes, ma’am!” She drives off swiftly, leaving Rachel to linger on the empty driveway. 

She’s home before she’s barely realized she’s been driving. Hiram and Leroy are seated at the kitchen table, arguing over the latest edition of the Berry Family Hanukkah Herald – their far superior version of the typical prosaic Christmas letter. 

“Rachelah!” Hiram shouts. “Perhaps you can settle our little dispute. Your dear old dad here, by which I mean me, thinks that this picture” – he points to a photograph of the three of them smiling broadly in Times Square – “makes me look the most dashing, but your, ahem, misguided father prefers this one.” 

Leroy taps on another photograph, taken on the top of the Empire State building just before Rachel’s classes had started for the semester. Both of the pictures speak of an entirely different Rachel, far different from the one who stands gazing at them, but she prefers the windswept realness of the Empire State and says so.

“Thanks, my star,” Leroy says tenderly. 

Hiram feigns disapproval, but it doesn’t last long. “So when is our houseguest due to arrive?” 

Rachel can’t quite meet his gaze. “Maybe an hour or so? I’m so sorry to spring the idea on you like this, but she has nowhere else to go—”

Leroy’s hand rests on her shoulder. It’s a gesture she’s grateful for. “I know you wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important to you. You truly have a heart of gold. We just don’t want to see you get hurt.” 

“I think we’re trying to move past that. If you could just spend a little time with her, I know you’ll see in her what I do.”

Hiram’s smile is slow and wry, but genuine. “Well, at any rate, it’s going to be an interesting holiday. But I promise you that we’ll treat her fairly, no matter what’s transpired between you two in the past. Water under the bridge.”

Rachel spends the next hour observing the playful banter between her fathers as the three of them recount the family exploits of the past year – and, in the case of Finn’s passing, some of the more difficult moments. In a way, knowing that she and Quinn have somehow forged their rocky friendship anew helps in diffusing the sting of Finn’s absence. Wherever he is, Rachel can safely imagine that he’d be happy that Glee Club found the strength to support each other through his death and honor his memory. 

When the doorbell finally rings, Leroy’s in the kitchen and beats Rachel to the door. Quinn stands before them, holding a small bouquet of flowers and a charming, albeit uneasy, smile. That perfect aura she once held as Head Cheerleader has been supplanted by something more genuine, graceful even. 

“I see our guest has arrived,” Leroy remarks warmly. “Hello, Quinn. It’s a pleasure to have you.”

Quinn replies in kind, too engrossed in pleasantries with both of Rachel’s fathers to quite catch her eye. Rachel realizes how impatient she is to spend time with Quinn, alone, and it surprises her, how easy it is to fall into whatever it is that she and Quinn share. Quinn’s sitting at the kitchen table with her fathers, who are smiling broadly at Quinn’s wry wit, her pleasant manner of conversation. It feels eerie, in a way. It itches to be examined, but Rachel’s not ready to delve into the more complicated aspects of why exactly she invited Quinn to spend the holidays with her family, so she strides up to the table, instead.

“Dad, Daddy,” she clucks reproachfully. “I’m sure our guest must be tired from such an early morning. Why don’t I show Quinn to her room upstairs?”

Hiram’s crooked smile is knowing – it’s the same smile he flashes when Rachel thrusts herself back into the spotlight after too long in its absence. “Sounds like a perfect idea. Quinn, honey, do you need any help with your bags?”

Quinn smiles shyly. “No, it’s fine, Mr. Berry. I can manage by myself.”

“Hiram, please. I think you’ll find we’re not terribly formal here.”

Rachel finds Quinn as soon as she’s lugged two duffel bags upstairs into the guest room. “I am so sorry my fathers ambushed you like that.”

“It’s fine,” Quinn laughs. “I actually really didn’t mind.”

Rachel’s look is suspicious. “I’m just going to pretend it’s not weird.”

“What’s weird?” Quinn’s voice is breezy as she looks over her shoulder at Rachel’s puzzled expression.

“How well you get along, for starters. My fathers, well, they’re…”

“Absolutely charming?” Quinn supplies with a grin. “Anyway, even if they weren’t, I’m not here to impress them. I’m here to impress you. No more games.” 

The honesty in Quinn’s words surprises Rachel. She stands there, perhaps awkwardly, for a moment, surveying Quinn as she unpacks an impressive set of books and places them on the desk facing the guest room bed. The winter sunlight is already fleeting, and the shadows cast suffuse the small room with an intimacy that frankly catches Rachel off guard. Nothing seemed worse to her than losing Quinn, but now that Quinn’s right there and full of the kind of feelings neither of them really wants to talk about, it’s a little disarming. But there are no opportune Glee Club assignments or musical-esque chances to break into song and sing it out, so Rachel shuffles back to her room silently, pensively. 

She’s not sure how much time has passed, lying still on the same comforting bed that saw her through all the drama high school had to offer, but when Quinn softly knocks on her half-open door, it’s nearly dark out. She’s wearing a Yale sweatshirt that Rachel’s never seen before and sweatpants, and for a moment, Rachel’s train of thought is disrupted by how anyone could possibly look that decent in sweatpants—

“Earth to Rachel,” Quinn says, and just like that, she’s thrust back into the moment again. A mug of hot chocolate is being offered to her, which she accepts tentatively.

“Sorry.” Rachel’s gazes falls to her comforter, its colors surprisingly unmuted by the fading daylight. “I guess I’m just a bit sleepy.”

“Well, sleepyhead, your fathers just invited the two of us to go caroling tonight and I’m not sure if they’re joking or not. Something about it being a Berry family tradition?”

Rachel grins. “I wish there were! But no, I think they’re just teasing you.”

“Well, these are the things I would know if you came downstairs with me.” Quinn’s tone is playful, pleasingly so. There’s an unencumbered smile that lingers for a moment, enough to cause Rachel to avert her gaze self-consciously. She doesn’t want to falter beneath Quinn’s tender gaze – she doesn’t, she can’t, begrudge Quinn her feelings, after all – but she does all the same. Quinn’s affections for her aren’t like Jacob Ben-Israel’s or the few suitors she’d had at NYADA: those, at least, were dispensed with easily enough. They could be forgotten or dismissed. There’s something so achingly present about the way Quinn feels about her – unless it’s sorted out, Rachel can’t seem to get it out of her head. 

Quinn, for her part, shuffles awkwardly on the edge of the bed. “If you’d rather have your privacy, I completely understand. I don’t mean to intrude.”

“No,” Rachel answers quickly. Quinn’s lip quivers into a half-smile, and something tightens in Rachel’s chest. “I meant it when I asked you to spend the holidays with me. I don’t expect you to sequester yourself in the guest room all day. At least not when I have the opportunity to educate you in the finer points of Broadway classics.” 

Quinn chuckles. “Yeah, I kind of expect that. I suppose now’s the perfect time to admit that I’ve never seen _Funny Girl_ , huh?”

“Lucy Quinn Fabray! We’re going to have to rectify this immediately.” 

So they do. Rachel’s nestled in the crook of Quinn’s shoulder on the couch, avoiding the mindful gazes of her fathers as she surveys Quinn’s expression. While failing to appreciate the finer parts of Barbra Streisand’s genius isn’t quite a dealbreaker for Rachel – hadn’t she managed to date Finn? – she’s able to discern some real pleasure in Quinn’s gentle smile, and her chest beats a little more insistently for it. It’s a comfort to know that someone honestly enjoys her company, something that can’t be said for all her supposed friends. It’s… strangely alluring, Rachel thinks. 

It’s getting harder and harder to deny, when Quinn’s arm lazily shifts around Rachel and the thrum in her chest returns, that her feelings for Quinn are entirely platonic. In between the faint surprise, palpable relief, and taut apprehension, Rachel settles into Quinn. 

The dulcet tones of Barbra, the bright chatter of her fathers, and even the faint trace of lavender from Quinn’s sweatshirt all coalesce – to Rachel, it feels as strikingly like home as the crowded streets of New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from "The Rose Captain" by Sea Wolf


	10. Don't cry I'll bring this home to you

It’s two days later when Quinn hears the soft padding of feet coming from the stairwell. It’s late, and she hasn’t been able to maintain a semblance of a normal sleep-wake cycle since the twins were born. Too much upheaval to return to her usual schedule, so here she is. She barely needs to glance at her phone to discern the hour: two-forty a.m. There’s a large stack of books on her bed, and she’s been scribbling various notes in the margins for the past couple of hours. Her professors were merciful with their deadlines, and she’s finished all her finals – as well as half the reading assigned for January. She didn’t maintain a 3.9 GPA while pregnant for nothing. 

It’s not the first time she’s suspected someone in the Berry household to be a sleepwalker – or worse, a chronic insomniac like herself. No matter how surreptitious the sleepwalker-slash-insomniac has tried to be, Quinn’s still heard the same faint footfall each evening. Indulging her curiosity, Quinn slips downstairs, fully expecting to find Hiram or Leroy sneaking a slice of bacon or other non-vegan indulgence. 

But it’s Rachel she sees – Rachel who is staring blankly out the window, watching the snowfall with a mug in hand. There’s a kettle on the stove, and Quinn is tempted to pour herself a cup as well, but instead she stands beside Rachel, softly placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Didn’t think I’d find you here,” she says softly. 

Rachel, for her part, doesn’t flinch. Her eyes are the first thing Quinn notices, puffy and slightly raw. There’s no trace of the indefatigable Rachel Berry enthusiasm from high school – no, this is an entirely different Rachel. The same scared, tempest-tossed figure that came to New Haven unannounced, looking for something that eludes Quinn even now. 

So she stands there, in silence, threading her arm around Rachel’s waist so she can lean into Quinn’s shoulder. It strikes Quinn, in a way it hasn’t before, how tiny and vulnerable Rachel seems. 

“I saw the light underneath your door,” Rachel says, apropos of nothing, after awhile. Before Quinn can respond, she adds, “I was kind of hoping you’d come.”

“I guess we have a way of finding each other,” Quinn murmurs, before she can think the better of it. It occurs to her that she ought to keep her distance, ought to mitigate the risk of Rachel’s discomfort at all the close contact they’ve shared. But there’s a pull that’s hard to resist, somehow, and she’s not entirely sure Rachel doesn’t feel it, too. 

“Would you think it strange if I asked to sleep with you… in your bed, tonight? It’s just, I’ve been having these—”

“Nightmares, I know,” Quinn supplies gently. “I used to do the same thing, after the accident.”

Rachel’s eyes are wide and fathoms deep. There is something in Rachel’s vulnerability that pulls at Quinn, makes her wonder just how lonely Rachel has been and for how long – probably longer than any of them has realized. There’s an immeasurable sadness as she quietly leads Rachel up the stairs and plucks the books unceremoniously from the bedspread while Rachel gathers the covers over her small frame. They’re both too young, it occurs to Quinn, to know this kind of pain at twenty, the kind that comes from losing a baby and having to check your mom into rehab and loving a girl who’s barely two feet away from you but couldn’t be further. And Rachel, who’s mourning for so much more, she suspects, than Finn. 

“You can trust me, you know,” Quinn mumbles awkwardly into the darkness. “I don’t have any ulterior motives – I haven’t, actually, for a long time.”

Rachel exhales, and Quinn isn’t sure how to take it until she feels Rachel curl up against her, wordlessly, the thin cotton of Quinn's t-shirt soaking up Rachel’s silent tears. Rachel’s breathing stills, and she’s soon asleep, nestled against Quinn’s collarbone like a small child. There are things she has learned to count on, when sleep doesn’t come – the insistent rise and fall of her chest, reminding her she’s alive; memories of Beth’s laughter, the one beautiful thing she’s brought into the world; and finally, the stolen thoughts of Rachel, which sometimes hurt worst of all. 

The view from the balcony is stunning in its clarity – so vivid it might’ve been a dream, had Quinn not been sure she’d actually been there. It’s a memory that Quinn’s revisited over the past few days, and she can almost feel the scratchiness of the velvet seat against her new tights as she fidgets yet again. Her coat is draped against the seatback in case she needs to make a quick getaway, but for now, she’s sure that no one’s spotted her. Santana, for her part, will make a polite excuse; Quinn’s nearly certain of that. Rachel’s fathers will have secured front-row seats, and maybe Kurt will join them if he isn’t otherwise engaged. Which leaves Quinn, secure in her anonymity in the cheap seats. It’s not a particularly grand plan, and she’s not even sure why she hopped the first train into the city after turning in a particularly hasty essay. It’s not like seeing Rachel perform will do anything to repair their bitterly fractured relationship – especially since Quinn’s resolved not to tell Rachel she’d even come at all.

It’s right after intermission – she knows because she’d spotted Rachel’s fathers in the lobby of the theatre, oversize bouquet in tow, and prayed under her breath that they didn’t do a double take at the sight of her. She’s still trembling from the adrenaline rush when the curtain rises and her breath catches at the sight of Rachel. She’s attired very simply in an off-white dress that makes her seem at once younger and older – there’s a sharpness to her cheekbones that Quinn doesn’t remember, and she’s not smiling but not frowning, either, as the music begins. Quinn doesn’t recognize the song, but it reminds her of when she’d first heard Rachel sing in freshman year of high school. 

There’s the same palpable thrill, the way her breath gets stuck in her throat. It was then that she’d realized that Rachel had been gifted with – had cultivated – a talent that brought joy to other people; all the things Quinn was good at only seemed to bring others pain. It might be why she’d targeted Rachel in the first place – a reminder that, yet again, Quinn was inadequate, despite working hard to seem exactly the opposite. But the first time she’d seen Rachel onstage was long before any slushies or cheerleader uniforms or even teenage pregnancies. She was late for study hall when she’d heard music coming from the auditorium: and there was Rachel, pouring her heart out to an empty room. Something about that image resonates with Quinn, even as Rachel’s playing to a full crowd at the Winter Showcase. 

The rest of the night she remembers in pieces: Rachel’s voice carrying on the final note; Quinn rising to her feet before she’d even realized that giving Rachel a standing ovation might break her cover; walking out onto the cold New York streets and realizing that her cheeks were wet. She hadn’t expected to find Rachel at her doorstep only a week later – or ever, if she’s being honest. 

She clings to a stray thread of alertness as sleep looms in the distance: it’s nearly daybreak, and if the night can’t shelter her forever, she can at least keep the memory of holding Rachel tucked away with the rest of her secrets. 

When Quinn wakes, however, she wakes alone – for a moment, as she lingers in the foggy space between wakefulness and sleep, she’s not even sure her encounter with Rachel had actually happened. The books she’d stacked neatly on the bedside table aren’t telling enough; it’s when she reaches for the sweatshirt she’d been wearing the night before and finds it missing that she knows. She wouldn’t have pinned Rachel for the quick-getaway type, but Quinn’s too groggy to give the matter further thought. She adjusts her glasses and pads downstairs to an empty kitchen. There’s a voicemail from her mother that she’s not particularly thrilled about, and a cryptic text from Rachel saying that she’s out for the afternoon but would be back by dinner. It’s not that Rachel’s absence makes her a deficient hostess; Quinn had frankly just expected to be thrust into the world of Rachel Berry’s holiday extravaganza, when in fact it had almost been the complete opposite.

Sure, they’d eaten dinner with Rachel’s fathers every night – family dinners being a good deal more enjoyable than in the Fabray household – but Rachel hadn’t suggested any afternoon outings or even asked what her plans were. So Quinn had polished off the remainder of her finals without much fanfare, and in the evenings, when Leroy and Hiram were home, they’d play charades or watch Project Runway. It was only yesterday that Quinn dialed Shelby’s number and let it ring all the way through; for once, Shelby seemed relieved to hear from her and even offered to have her over to babysit Beth unsupervised – if only so that Shelby might catch up on some much-needed holiday shopping. 

Quinn’s milling around the local shopping mall aimlessly, having done the vast majority of her holiday shopping on the internet like everyone else, when she spots Rachel queuing in the improbably long Starbucks line. She’s carrying a few sparse packages, not enough to merit more than an hour or two’s worth of shopping, and Quinn can’t seem to spot Kurt or anyone else familiar around – which means that Rachel’s been shopping alone. Her face is impassive, which might give Quinn pause, if Quinn were in the mood to divine what’s been eating at Rachel lately, which is usually a combination of herself, Finn, Kurt and/or Santana, and her career prospects in general. 

Quinn sighs. It’s not that being unkind to Rachel is a force of habit that requires a manual override, or even that she’s feeling spurned at Rachel’s morning absence – truthfully, she’d been spared a surely awkward conversation there – but it’s tiring, worrying about someone else’s demons along with your own. The holidays were never an especially bright time around her household, so she’s not particularly nostalgic at missing out on derisive comments about her love life or student loans. Rather, spending time at the home-slash-shrine of Rachel Berry has brought to the forefront everything that Quinn usually tries not to dwell upon. And at Yale, it’s been managed easily enough: a few less-than-droll dates; the memory of too-cheap tequila and her hands on another girl’s hips; grabbing sushi with her recitation group and chatting until well into the evening. It’s been by no means a charmed life, not that Quinn expected as much, but there’s a promise to it that she never found in Lima. And with the house good as sold, Finn gone, and Glee Club more or less fractured, there’s never been as little tying her to Lima as there is now. 

Except Rachel. Rachel, who’s now sitting alone sipping the biggest vegan latte Quinn’s ever seen. And maybe it’s masochistic, but Quinn flags her down and joins her. If this is her lot, she’s going to see it all the way through, maybe even get it right this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from "Pachuca Sunrise" by Minus The Bear


	11. The time when all our mistakes made sense, you needed it

Rachel’s eyelids flutter open, and she’s vaguely aware that her limbs are presently entangled with someone else’s. There’s a faint coaxing of sunlight through the curtains – and Quinn’s frame dozing comfortably next to her own. Quinn’s arm, protective even in sleep, anchors Rachel, and before Rachel can give it a second thought, she’s slipping from Quinn’s grasp and arising from the unfamiliar bed. There’s a faint sensation that feels a lot like embarrassment – had she really asked to sleep with Quinn last night? – and the slightly confusing memory of clutching Quinn with abandon. 

She shivers, impulsively pulling on the sweatshirt crumpled on the desk before realizing it’s Quinn’s. She doesn’t spare a second glance before closing the door and greeting her fathers downstairs. Hiram’s brow is quizzical at the sight of his daughter’s attire, but neither of her fathers says anything as Rachel pours herself a cup of coffee into the largest mug they own. 

“Nightmares again?” Leroy asks gently, as Rachel spreads homemade jam onto her toast. She nods meekly. 

“I’m so sorry, kiddo,” Hiram says, his voice deep and genuine. “If you want, I can—”

“Thanks, dad, but I don’t need to see a doctor,” Rachel says, perhaps a little petulantly. She sees their knitted brows, then adds, “Not yet, at least.” 

“So what are you and Quinn up to today?” Leroy calls brightly from the doorway, gathering his coat as Hiram does the dishes. 

“I’m not sure, actually. Since I still have some holiday shopping to finish, I was thinking about braving the mall.”

“Well don’t get into too much trouble,” Hiram chides playfully. “But if you two insist on it anyway, there’s extra money in the pull-out drawer, courtesy of Daddy.” 

She kisses Leroy’s cheek, then Hiram’s. “Thank you.” 

Then the house is mercifully quiet. Her fathers have been mostly silent about their regard – or lack thereof – for Quinn, although she suspects they’ve shared more than a few words behind closed doors about housing the girl who’d once made Rachel’s life… unpleasant. The same girl who’s somehow fallen for her. Quinn Fabray always did know how to make a girl’s head spin. 

Her coffee’s gone cold by eight-thirty, and she gives half a thought to sneaking back into bed – her own room, this time. She passes the door to the guest room, her mind bursting with endless questions. She ought to return Quinn’s sweatshirt, or else find a way to entertain her guest instead of avoiding her. But there’s also the lingering urge to slip into bed with Quinn, embrace the palpable comfort of another body against her own. She can’t remember the last time she’d been held before Quinn: Mr. Schue’s wedding, perhaps? Even longer? It’s not wrong to desire physical intimacy, she knows that – but she’s not a tease. Even if they’re friends, even if they’re comfortable getting a little touchy-feely sometimes, she’s not about to jeopardize the most functional relationship in her life over something so silly. It wouldn't be fair, let alone right. 

No, she can be civil to Quinn: more than civil, she can learn to bear her cross the way Quinn’s borne hers – quietly, admirably. Whatever her headspace is trying to make her feel for Quinn, she can resist. After all, they’ve both gone a long time without a relationship – presumably, at least, on Quinn’s part. It’s only natural that Rachel would be flattered at such a powerful confession and the way Quinn has continued to support her. It doesn’t mean she’s about to jump Quinn’s bones, no matter how lonely she is – Santana’s sloppy seconds aren’t exactly the look she’s going for, no matter how beautiful Quinn is or how good in bed she’d probably be. (Which, given Quinn’s pristine figure and the way Santana still occasionally blushes at the mention of Quinn’s name, is likely very, very good. But that’s beside the point.) 

It’s ten-thirty by the time Rachel’s finally left the house – her perpetual inattention led to no fewer than six outfit changes and accidentally shampooing her hair twice, which she ascribes less to having pictured Quinn naked than simply the result of chronic sleep deprivation. Yet she makes it to the shopping mall unscathed, surrounded by vast swathes of shoppers keen on their material displays of affection. She tries not to remember New York in all its holiday splendor, or how the one time she’d ventured to Macy’s during finals week, it had been so touchingly beautiful she’d actually cried a little. Lima, at least, is comparatively quieter – and more amenable to driving, for starters. It’s not Ohio’s fault, per se, that the populace is inherently less cultured and the cityscapes less grand. 

She’s ambling around the smallish bookstore at the end of the mall when she realizes she hasn’t gotten Quinn anything for Christmas. It’s hardly The Strand or Powell’s, but it does have a Literary Fiction section, which she supposes Quinn might appreciate. She half-heartedly contemplates getting Quinn some novel with a movie poster for a cover, just to see her reaction, but thinks the better of it. (She almost wishes there existed a copy of _Help! My Best Friend is a Gay Ex-Cheerleader for Whom I Might Have a Smidgeon of Romantic Feelings_ , but no such luck.)

She’s nearly empty-handed and devoid of inspiration when she makes a pit-stop for coffee. She’s stirring her soy latte aimlessly when a figure approaches her – at first, she can’t make out the silhouette amongst the crowds, but when she realizes it’s Quinn, she’s unspeakably grateful for the chance to get out of her own head.

“I didn’t realize I had a stalker,” she says with a smile, in lieu of a hello.

Quinn pulls up a chair with a smirk. “Hey, at least I’m not the ninja that managed to make a clean getaway this morning without so much as a sound.”

Rachel regards her guiltily. “Yeah, about that—”

“It’s no big deal,” Quinn insists breezily. Quinn seems so unruffled that it’s almost unnerving to Rachel, how thrown she is by comparison. “Like I said, I got nightmares too, actually a lot, after the accident.”

“They’re not always about Finn. I mean, a lot of them still are, but I dream about… other stuff, too.” She doesn’t know how to explain, but it’s comforting, the way Quinn looks at her without expectation. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“Rach, I’m your _friend_. It kind of comes with the job description.”

“Funny, I didn’t remember writing that clause,” Rachel muses, perhaps a little too sarcastically. “But nonetheless, I’m glad it wasn’t… you know, weird.” 

“Why? Because you snore?” 

“I do not!” Rachel clears her throat, noticing that her outburst has earned her the attention of the few passersby. “Do I really?”

“Maybe a little. And it wasn’t awkward. Unless you woke up to me drooling all over myself, I’m not sure what there is to feel weird about.” 

Rachel manages a small, “Thanks,” and her eyes turn to the half-empty latte before her. She can’t bear to look at Quinn, all cool and composed in a dark-grey cardigan and button-down. Rachel might as well be wearing one of her animal sweaters – which are, thank goodness, long deceased. 

She wants so much more than to crumple at the altar of Quinn Fabray, but there’s the old thread of insecurity that hearkens back to her high school days, when it was all she could do to imagine herself half as pretty or popular. It doesn’t even feel like a one-up to know that – by some inexplicable twist of fate – the same girl she’d wanted to emulate more than anything is now in love with her. In fact, if Rachel’s to stand any chance at all, she has to separate the image of Quinn as Head Cheerleader and main tormenter from the woman before her. 

“You know, at the risk of being slightly impertinent, it kind of feels like you’ve been avoiding me,” Quinn says at last. There’s a softness to her words that Rachel’s still getting used to – the aura of impenetrability is long gone, replaced with a burnished Ivy League charm. 

“I’ve just been… thinking a lot. And I kind of thought you’d, I don’t know, rather have Unholy Trinity reunions or something.”

“Because Santana and I are on such great terms right now?” Quinn chuckles. “I mean, I get it if you don’t want to spend tons of time together – that’s totally your prerogative.”

“God, I am really making a mess of this, aren’t I?” Rachel muses. “I’m sorry, Quinn.”

“What do you mean, you’re sorry? You’re the one that wheedled your fathers into giving me a place to stay for the holidays. You really have no idea how kind you are, do you?”

Rachel relaxes a little. “I guess not?” 

“Well, in that case, perhaps you’d indulge me – I’ve got somewhere I need to go tomorrow, but I don’t know if I can do it alone. Actually, I’m pretty sure I can’t.”

“What do you have to be nervous about?” Rachel blurts. “You’re amazing.”

Quinn clears her throat. “A lot, actually. People aren’t always apt to judge me by my sterling wit or charming personality, even at Yale. But, umm, I was wondering if you could do me a favor – I know it’s asking a lot, but would you help me babysit Beth tomorrow? That is, if you don’t already have plans.”

Stunned silence as the two disparate poles – Shelby and Beth – shift into focus in Rachel’s mind. “At Shelby’s house?” Rachel manages.

“She’ll be out finishing holiday shopping – it’s the only reason I was even invited, I suspect. You can say no; I’ll totally understand.”

Rachel watches as Quinn chews her lip nervously. She’s not sure how much it means for Quinn to invite her to see Beth tomorrow, but she suspects that it means a lot. And she’s not sure which terrifies her more – interacting with her biological mother, or the possibility that watching Quinn interacting with Beth will only confuse her feelings further. She’s sorely tempted to say no, but if Quinn needs her as much as she says, she can’t deny her the request. Not when Quinn’s singlehandedly borne Rachel’s grief more than anyone else in her life, including her fathers. 

“Okay,” Rachel says slowly. As soon as she does, Quinn beams – and Rachel knows she’s done the right thing, because in her excitement, Quinn is infectious. 

“I promise I’ll make it up to you, Rach – I swear. Thank you.”

“You already have.” Rachel says it because it’s true. 

When they arrive home, Leroy and Hiram are home from work early and the sound of holiday music permeates every inch of the Berry household – as do the decorations. Sure, the Berry family celebrates Hanukkah each year, but even though Leroy was raised a Christian, it’s not typical to see Rachel’s fathers spreading tinsel over the most ostentatious Douglas fir Rachel’s ever seen. 

“Rachel! Quinn!” Hiram calls from the ladder, a bright gold star in hand to decorate the treetop. “You’re just in time.” 

“Excuse your wayward dad his lack of explanation,” Leroy says calmly, unpacking Christmas ornaments out of earshot. “But we jointly decided that we’d celebrate both holidays this year, in honor of our esteemed houseguest.”

Rachel’s filled with a sudden tenderness for her fathers at their kindness. Quinn hugs Leroy warmly, speechless in her shock, and when Hiram lights the tree – giant gold star and all – he’s grinning like a schoolboy. 

“What do you think, kiddo?” he asks, stepping off the ladder with a thud. 

“Dad, you didn’t have to—”

“We wanted to. For you and Quinn. It’s not often we get to pull a fast one on our beautiful, grown-up daughter, anyway.”

For awhile, Quinn gets lost in the commotion – thanking Rachel’s fathers profusely, sharing favorite Christmas carols with a nostalgic Leroy – but there’s a distinct pause when she gazes back at Rachel. Her smile is small, at first, but there’s a spark in the hazel-green of her eyes that sets her face alight with radiant joy. 

It’s all Rachel can see as she rests her head atop her pillow that night. As she drifts to sleep, cocooned in the warm embrace of her comforter, she wonders dimly if Quinn is thinking about her, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from "Bitches in Tokyo" by Stars


	12. With stitches and make-up you'll hold it together for me

Quinn hesitates before ringing the doorbell – there’s an oversize wreath on the door, and the cloying combination of cinnamon and fir tree churns her stomach. She’s carrying a small bundle of holiday gifts for Beth and Shelby, and the panic settling in begins to cast aspersions on their meagerness. 

She swallows, hard, and feels a reassuring pat on her shoulder. Rachel, standing beside her, looks almost as terrified as she feels. A brief glance in her direction – and a warm, albeit nervous, smile from Rachel – is enough to screw her courage to the sticking place, so to speak, and soon the high-pitched trill of the doorbell is followed by the unmistakable, excited squeal of a three-year-old. 

_Beth_. 

Shelby looks less frazzled than she’d sounded on the phone; Beth clings at her leg, studying them with a keen persistence. Shelby gently ushers them in, her gaze lingering on Rachel. Then they’re in the family room, festooned both with holiday décor and innumerable toys and stuffed animals. It’s cozier than she remembered, but she’s not here to admire Shelby’s decorating tastes – it’s Beth who has captured her attention. Beth, with her mischievous grin and inquisitive demeanor, all wayward blonde curls and frenetic energy. 

“You remember Quinn, don’t you, Beth?” Shelby asks gently. There’s a twinge of uneasiness in her voice – whether it’s about Quinn, Rachel, or something else entirely, she can’t quite place it. 

Beth regards her with slight suspicion, clutching at a stuffed bear possessively. “No,” she says slowly, almost philosophically. Shelby looks worried.

“It’s all right,” Quinn reassures her. “Beth, I’m Quinn. I’m… a friend. I’ve known you since you were born, did you know that?” 

It takes a minute for Beth to process the information. She’s not shy, exactly, but there’s a wariness to her that’s strikingly familiar. But soon there’s a tentative smile, and Beth nods. “Okay.” She takes Quinn’s outstretched hand. “C’mon, let’s go play!” 

“Not yet, honey,” Shelby chides. “You can play with Quinn all you want soon, but there’s someone else I want you to meet.” 

Quinn glances back at Rachel, who is eyeing her with a strange mix of tenderness and apprehension. She’s dressed simply in an understated pink dress and cardigan, and something in Quinn’s chest tightens unexpectedly at the sight of her, still a little desperate for Shelby’s affection. 

“I’m Rachel,” she says to Beth, who has hopped up on the couch beside her. “Quinn says you’ve… heard me sing?”

Beth’s eyes widen. “You’re _Rachel_?” 

Rachel beams. Quinn wishes she could see how proud Shelby looks. “Yeah, I am. Do you sing? If you want, maybe you and Quinn and I could sing together.” 

Beth looks at Shelby expectantly. “I wanna sing like Queen Elsa and Princess Anna!” 

“Why don’t you show Rachel your room, then?” Shelby says. “I need to talk to Quinn about something.”

Beth grabs Rachel’s hand, shooting Quinn a round-cheeked grin before running off down the hallway. “Hurry up, Quinn!” she yells. 

“She’s really something, isn’t she?” Shelby remarks gently. “Anyway, I’m only going to be a couple of hours. You have my cell phone number, and there’s a list of emergency contacts on the fridge. Beth’s already eaten, but if she wants a snack or something, she knows where to find them. Oh, and thanks for doing this.”

“You’re the one I should be thanking – really.”

“You gave birth to her. She should get to know you… and Rachel, too.” Quinn can sense there’s a lot Shelby would prefer to leave unspoken when it comes to Rachel – but there’s genuine emotion, too. 

Quinn hears faint humming of the garage door, and a brief thud tells her Shelby’s gone. She lingers in the doorway to Beth’s room and spies Rachel commandeering a child-size piano. There’s a bit of schoolmarm to her demeanor – not to mention her outfit – that’s frankly attractive. But it’s watching her interacting with Beth that grips her with a sudden tenderness; she knows that her feelings for Rachel were unlikely to be reciprocated, but something about Rachel’s unflappable kindness feels bittersweet – it’s wanting someone you know you can’t have, sure, but it’s also seeing the parts of that someone they haven’t fully appreciated or discovered. Quinn longs to see more of this Rachel, however far-fetched that desire. 

She’d realized that Rachel was beautiful in high school – it was the kind of beauty most people didn’t notice or appreciate right away, but Quinn knew that unlike her kind of beauty, which was destined to peak in high school, Rachel’s would bloom when she came into her own in college and on the stage. Of course, she’d never told Rachel this – it seemed too dangerous to hope that she and Rachel could be anything more than benign acquaintances, at the time. But the more time she spends with Rachel, the more time she wonders if Rachel has realized this about herself; Quinn’s suspected there to be a few interested parties in New York (among them, some guy with a terribly preppy name – Brody, she thinks), but she still senses the inferiority and insecurity Rachel dragged around in high school. The same insecurity, Quinn thinks dully, that she helped to cause. It seems ironic, wanting to make her feel more beautiful than anyone else – but it’s the truth. 

Rachel’s singing voice snaps Quinn out of her thoughts. She’s starting to sing “Do Re Mi” from _The Sound of Music_ , and Quinn sits beside Beth, who immediately hops on her lap. She listens as Beth starts to sing along, laughing softly as Beth stumbles over the words; it’s a saccharine-sweet moment, its bliss all self-contained like a snowglobe. Quinn knows she won’t soon forget it. 

“Do you sing?” Beth asks her when the song ends. 

“Not unless forced,” Quinn says with a grin. 

Rachel looks conspiratorially at Beth. “Do you want Quinn to sing with us, Beth?” 

Beth nods vigorously. “Yes, please!” 

Quinn groans audibly, but secretly she’s glad to have the chance to sing with Rachel again, let alone Beth. She hadn’t been brave enough to do a duet when Rachel had dragged her to the lone karaoke bar in New Haven, and given their tenuous relationship, Quinn hadn’t been sure she would ever get the chance again. She watches as Beth drags out an iPad from her bedside table and navigates her music library with ease – Quinn isn’t sure how she can recognize the myriad cover albums that stream across the screen, but given Shelby’s musical aptitude, she’s not exactly surprised. 

“Your mom certainly has good taste,” Rachel remarks. “Do you ever sing together?”

“Sometimes.” 

“What do you like to sing best?”

Beth shrugs. “Disney. And showtunes.”

Quinn can feel Rachel’s enthusiasm brimming and wonders how her daughter and the girl she loves could have so much in common. It’s a strange feeling, but not an unpleasant one. Beth tosses the iPad aside in favor of her equally impressive movie collection. Rachel suggests a sing-along to _Beauty and the Beast_ , which earns Beth’s assent. She’s not exactly surprised that Rachel knows all the words to “Belle,” either – or that Beth has an endless array of costumes ready for them to try on. And by ‘ready,’ Quinn means that Beth orders them to each wear something; whether that’s from Shelby’s influence or her DNA, she’s not sure, but the bossiness is kind of adorable. 

During “Be Our Guest,” Beth has them spinning and dancing around the room, so much so that Quinn is practically winded after twirling them both around. Still, there’s a weighty, sentimental feeling in her chest that feels a lot like contentment. Beth’s curled up between Quinn and Rachel, dressed in polka-dotted tights, a rainbow-colored tutu, and a tall princess hat with a gleaming ribbon – all rosy cheeks and curls, she’s the picture of Quinn, but it’s a different version, a happier version. It feels a lot like redemption, seeing the best parts of herself in Beth. 

Rachel and Beth are all rapt attention, watching the movie with the same expression – except for the disgust on Beth’s face when the Beast is on-screen. “Don’t like him,” she says definitively. “He’s scary.”

“But that’s the point of the movie,” counters Rachel. “He’s supposed to be scary until you get to know him. You never know when a person’s going to surprise you with their true nature.” 

It’s not a stretch to see that it’s a directed at Quinn, and suddenly, she feels her cheeks growing hot and she can’t seem to meet Rachel’s gaze. When there’s a lull in the movie and Beth runs into her closet to search for her final costume – Belle’s golden gown – Quinn feels Rachel’s hand atop hers. 

“Everything okay?” Rachel says quietly. There’s something inquisitive and tender about her demeanor, and it’s hard for Quinn to bear how much it draws out her own feelings – the secret crevices and hollows inside herself where she’s sequestered the way she feels about Rachel, like Boo Radley in _To Kill a Mockingbird_. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Quinn says quickly, perhaps unconvincingly – but it’s too late for Rachel to push, for Beth sashays out in her Belle outfit to the applause and cheers of them both and insists that they all dance together instead of finishing the movie.

Dancing never felt natural to Quinn, and it still shows – there’s a point where she steps on Rachel’s toes and they all nearly fall down laughing at Quinn’s hidden clumsiness. But watching Beth navigate her room with a certain gracefulness surprises her, and she’s suddenly gripped with gratitude for Shelby, who has taken Beth in and grown her into this terrific little person. 

Beth’s stamina far exceeds hers – while she still exercises regularly, she hasn’t been quite as steady on her feet after the accident – so she lets Rachel tire Beth out and sits on the edge of the bed, happy to be party to their unbridled goofiness as she retreats into her thoughts. She wonders if any of this could have happened if she had kept Beth; she doesn't allow herself to dwell much on the decision, but seeing Beth and Rachel like this, it’s difficult to resist. She wants to believe she would have done a good job raising Beth, but seeing how safe Beth is here, how _loved_ , it’s hard to imagine that she would have been able to provide the same comforts. 

She traipses into the kitchen to get them all some water when the steady thrum of the garage door greets her, signifying Shelby’s presence and the end of her visit with Beth. Quinn expects to be filled with dread, but she’s instead hopeful that this isn’t the last she’ll be seeing of Beth in the near future. When Shelby emerges through the doorway, arms full of delicately wrapped packages, Quinn takes some and helps her place them in her closet, away from Beth’s prying eyes. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Shelby says ominously, in a way that makes Quinn’s throat clench. They’re in the living room, alone, and she doesn’t think she can stand it if Shelby decides to keep her apart from Beth. 

“About what?”

“Well, Beth’s turning four soon, and I want to start introducing her to more culture. My sister moved to New York recently, and I thought maybe we could visit her, see some Broadway shows… Do you think Rachel would want to meet up with us?”

Shelby’s careful words and the cautious optimism behind them are warming. “Of course she would. Trust me, I think she’d be delighted.”

Shelby’s sigh of relief is audible, and Quinn wonders how long she’d been rehearsing that speech. “You could come up from New Haven, too, if you wanted, you know.”

“I’d love to, truly.” 

“Then I’ll be in touch. I promise.” 

When she follows Shelby into Beth’s room, she’s not expecting Beth to not only embrace Shelby, but herself too – it’s something she can cling to, the feeling of child-sized arms and the smell of watermelon shampoo and fabric softener. Beth will always be hers, in a way, but if someone else has to raise her, she’s glad it’s Shelby. 

“Quinn and Rachel have to get going now. And you, my little dumpling, have to take a bath.”

“Mom,” Beth whines in an oddly prescient way that makes Quinn imagine a teenager instead. She’s a little less envious of Shelby for that. 

“We’ll see you soon, Beth,” Rachel says gently. “Won’t we?”

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” Shelby says brightly. “Beth, how would you like it if we went to New York so we could visit Aunt Caroline… and Rachel and Quinn too?”

Beth’s eyes grow wide. “Really?”

Shelby nods warmly. “Of course. After all, who better to accompany you to your very first Broadway musical?”

At this, Quinn glances at Rachel – who is nearly in tears. She’s beaming so genuinely that even Shelby has noticed. “I know it’s not much,” Shelby says, softly, to Rachel. “But I want to try. Quinn said you wouldn’t mind, so…”

“I’d love to,” Rachel says resolutely, glancing at Shelby, and then Quinn. She kneels to face Beth. “I hope you get all the presents you want this year, okay?”

Beth’s smile is nearly as wide as Rachel’s. “Okay. Will you be my friend, Rachel?” 

Rachel nods serenely. “I most certainly will.” 

And then Quinn is left to say goodbye to Beth. She grabs her bag and pulls out a small box wrapped in red and green. “This is for you, Beth. From me. I’m so glad I got to see you today, and I’ll be seeing you real soon.”

“For me?” 

“That’s right,” Quinn says. “Because you’re very special to me.”

“I like you,” Beth decides, wrapping her small arms around Quinn’s shoulders as she kneels. 

“I like you too, Beth.” 

And then she and Rachel are ushered to the door. Quinn remembers to pull out the second box for Shelby before she leaves, which catches Shelby by surprise. She’d found a recording of this year’s NYADA Winter Showcase and put it on a flashdrive, along with a few other recordings of Rachel that she’d been able to track down. Shelby would be loathe to admit it outright, but hearing Rachel sing brought tears to her eyes, and Quinn sensed that she coveted every chance to do so. And for good measure, she’d included two bags of premium roast coffee from the Lima Bean, for those mornings when Beth drew from the less attractive parts of Quinn’s genes. 

“It’s not much,” Quinn explains. “But I did want to thank you.” 

As they pull away in Quinn’s car, she watches Shelby’s broad smile and the way Beth waves emphatically at both of them – and feels Rachel’s hand on her thigh, curbing the lump in her throat. 

“Thank you,” Rachel says, her voice wavering slightly. “That was…”

“Really something?” Quinn offers. 

“More than that, I think you know.” She can tell Rachel is wiping the tears from the corners of her eyes, something Quinn had surreptitiously done as they’d gotten into the car.

“Yeah, well, me too,” Quinn says softly. 

They lock eyes at a stoplight – Quinn can tell Rachel’s been watching her by her expression. She can’t fathom what Rachel’s thinking except that there’s a contemplative air to her demeanor, and it’s partly heartening and partly worrying. 

They’re halfway home when Rachel speaks again. There’s a faint chill in the air and the threat of greying skies, and Quinn’s grip against the wheel is solid and sure with Rachel beside her. 

“Do you think we could visit Finn together sometime?” 

So Quinn impulsively makes a U-turn and they do – she leaves Rachel in the car and buys two bouquets of flowers from the closest grocery store, along with a package of Jolly Rancher candy canes, since they were always Finn’s favorite. (She does remember some things.) 

Quinn hugs her peacoat tighter as they navigate the cemetery to Finn’s plot, a nondescript headstone in a quiet corner surrounded by oak trees. Finn probably would have liked that. 

“You’ve been here before,” Rachel says slowly, as if she’s just realizing that Quinn knows her way around. 

Quinn nods. “I flew in after the whole checking-my-mom-into-rehab debacle to pick up my car, and it was kind of on the way. It felt like the right thing to do.”

Rachel silently chews on this for a few moments. “It’s hard to think about moving on while I’m here in Lima,” she says after a long pause. 

“The nightmares?”

Rachel nods. “I keep thinking that he’d want me to enjoy my life and pursue my dreams, but it feels like a lot of pressure knowing he didn’t get to. Like I have to live for two, now.”

“You don’t have to,” Quinn replies gently. “And sometimes there’s no rhyme or reason to what happens. I know that sending you off to New York was one of the proudest things he got to do. And I don’t think he’d want you to feel like he was holding you back in some way.” 

“You think so?” Rachel’s voice is small and child-like. Quinn has a moment of wondering if this would be happening if she’d been here for the initial fall-out – if she’d never flown her mother to Palm Springs and had to deal with family drama. If she’d been in New Haven instead, she could’ve taken the first train to the city and rode out the waves of grief together with Rachel. Maybe everything would be different between them – Quinn wouldn’t have divulged her feelings like an idiot and things would be less weighted. Or maybe not; it’s impossible to tell. 

“Do you miss him?” Rachel asks.

“Of course I do, Rach. He was a crappy boyfriend sometimes, but he was a good friend who tried his best to do what he thought was right. And he would have grown into a good man, a real family man. And maybe he doesn’t get to live that life, but he does get to live on through Glee Club. It’s not exactly a fair trade, but at least it’s something, you know?” 

“Yeah.” Rachel shuffles a bit closer to Quinn. Her coat is thinner than Quinn’s and the wind is starting to pick up, blowing a few stray flower petals from the bouquets they’d placed on Finn’s grave. 

“C’mere,” Quinn breathes, pulling Rachel into her. “It’s gonna be okay, you know that, right?” 

She’s not exactly the best at sentimental reassurance, but Rachel’s breathing gets less jagged, and it takes awhile, but she regains a bit of composure and leans down to touch the headstone. Maybe it has to be heavy between them for a reason, Quinn thinks. And if the reason is usually her, she’s satisfied by the fact that this time, she gets to be the strong one. It’s not that she never grieved for Finn – it had taken her a few bottles of wine in her dorm room and teary-eyed viewings of past Glee Club performances on YouTube, not that she’d ever tell anyone – but she knew that, even though they hadn’t spoken apart from a few exchanged postcards, they were okay. 

And it was enough for Quinn to carry her grief like she carries her secrets – tucked away in her marrow, in the most visceral parts of herself where no one can reach. But Rachel’s grief is a different beast, its fury more palpable. It hurls itself into the fray like an uncoordinated toddler. Which is exactly, Quinn thinks, how she should grieve, until the embers begin to smolder and Rachel can walk away feeling better for having felt it all as brashly as she had loved. 

Until that time, Quinn intends to stand silently by; it’s a paltry promise to have made to the cosmos, but it’s something. And it’s a something that feels a little more real as they walk back from the car hand-in-hand, crunching over the green-brown grass with shoes that have walked a long, long way to get where they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from "The Moviegoer" by Matt Pond PA


	13. Yes a heart will always go one step too far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear people who are maybe still reading this - I know it's been quite the long time. I haven't forgotten about this. I've given the chapter titles a spiffy update and plan on updating more soon. Stay tuned!

They’re idling in the empty driveway. Rachel hasn’t spoken much since the cemetery, which she knows must worry Quinn, but she can’t think of anything to say, for once. And then Quinn’s ushering her inside by the hand – she’s so impossibly tired that it’s like it’s happening to a different Rachel. She’s only vaguely aware of her own form but she notices things differently, like the knots in Quinn’s brow and the quiet confidence in her movements as she leads Rachel upstairs and to her room. “Not here,” is all Rachel has to say – hears herself say – and then they’re heading back, to the guest room now, and she’s settling atop the waves of green on the comforter and Quinn is pushing back the stray hairs on her forehead like a lover might. 

Her eyelids feel dreadfully heavy. The day’s been long and complicated – with Beth and Shelby, Quinn and Finn. There was the way Shelby looked at her, like she wanted – was _ready_ – to know her, at long last. There was the tenderness in Quinn’s expression as she looked at Rachel and Beth when they were dancing around; it wasn’t something she could see as much as she could feel it. And Beth, like a tiny, barely formed symphony of liveliness and energy waiting to be unleashed on the world, full of Quinn’s determination and wit and Puck’s charm. And Shelby’s guidance. 

And then the cemetery, a logical bookend to everything – because she has to say goodbye to the things she’s holding back, and there are too many what-ifs tugging at her proverbial pant legs to deal with Shelby and Beth and Finn and the way Quinn is starting to make her feel. It was silly to think that visiting Finn’s grave would provide her with any clarity about the situation, but in a way, it did. 

She just can’t think of the specifics because her eyes are closing and the world is the exact size and shape of the backs of her eyes, all black and calm. And the last thing she sees before she falls asleep is Quinn, tucking a blanket over her with these impossibly patient eyes as the rhythm of her breathing – _in, out, in, out_ – lulls her to sleep. 

It’s darker when she wakes, and Quinn’s not in the guest room but downstairs instead, sitting on the sofa reading with the impressively poor posture of the determined. It isn’t until Rachel sits beside her that she’s aware of anything but the pages before her. 

“Hi,” Quinn says, a little tentatively. 

“Quinn, I—” 

“It’s okay, Rach. You needed to rest. It’s hardly the end of the universe.” Quinn’s glasses are smudged and she’s wearing lounge pants and a cardigan, and Rachel feels a surge of affection brimming. 

“I forgot to tell you my fathers are out tonight for a holiday get-together. They won’t be home until late,” she says haltingly, half-afraid to meet Quinn’s searching gaze.

“I know. They called about an hour ago.”

Rachel can hardly suppress a grin when her gaze fixes on the pizza box from the only pizza joint in Lima that will consider making a vegan pie (and only if she asks nicely). “That isn’t—?”

“Oh it is,” Quinn replies smoothly. “You owe me big time. The delivery guy looked as if he wanted to murder me for my crimes against pizzakind. And I probably would have forgiven him, too, if he did.” 

“I’ll have you know,” Rachel counters, “that vegan pizza is not only the ethically—”

“Rachel, shut up and let’s eat.” Quinn’s voice is mock stern, her smile simultaneously warm and taunting as she heads for the kitchen. 

“I’m sorry again about today,” she says, voice embarrassingly small, as she digs in with knife and fork.

Quinn looks up from her pizza with a raised brow. “You don’t have to apologize. Well, apart from making me eat this sorry excuse for pizza.”

“I take offense to that!” Rachel proclaims, though her smile affirms the contrary. “I don’t know, I just have the sinking feeling that I kind of ruined our afternoon.”

“Hardly. You’ve been dealing with a lot lately. I totally get it. Anyway, considering we’ve both been living under the same roof and neither of us has slapped the other yet, I’m actually tempted to call it a success.” 

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am. And anyway, Beth absolutely adores you, so I have to admit I’m also a little jealous.” There’s this shy smile that Quinn gives her, just then – it’s gone all too soon, but it’s lovely and comforting and Rachel wants it to stay as much as she wants to get out of her own pitiful headspace. 

So she pours them both her Dad’s go-to drink for holiday cheer – vegan eggnog, not half as odious as it sounds to the unacquainted, _thank you very much_ – in the two biggest mugs they own. It’s paltry as far as peace offerings go, and Quinn has this motherly look of concern like Rachel’s plying her with alcohol – which, really, she kind of is – but she takes it anyway. 

“We don’t have anywhere to be, right?” Rachel asks, settling down onto the couch and thumbing through Quinn’s novel playfully. 

“Well, I wasn’t planning on getting drunk on vegan eggnog the night before Christmas Eve, but now that you mention it…” But in spite of Quinn’s supposed reticence, she’s smiling again, and that settles it for Rachel. It’s so easy, sitting here with Quinn and making snarky comments at whatever’s on television, that she almost forgets how complicated everything actually is. Still, she lets herself breathe in the smell of home, of the holidays, of Quinn’s sweatshirt (which she has no intention of returning at the moment). It’s easier not to miss the fleeting pleasures of New York when she does this – imagines being enveloped by the comforts of home. A conception of home that’s quickly come to include Quinn’s presence, as vaguely terrifying of a prospect as that is. 

Sometime after the second refill, Rachel decides that the Christmas romantic comedy marathon isn’t holding her interest. There are only so many meet-cutes and improbably pristine smiles she can stomach for one evening. Maybe her newfound cynicism means she’s growing up and shedding old fantasies; then again, maybe it doesn’t really mean anything at all.

Quinn makes a half-hearted play for the remote. “I was watching that, you know.”

“Seriously? It’s far-fetched and patently ridiculous. I refuse to be party to such nonsense any longer.”

“Jeez, Rach. That’s rich, coming from Ms. All-I-Want-for-Hanukkah-is-a-Leading-Man.” Quinn’s grin is all self-satisfaction, but rather than being intimidating, it’s endearing – coupled with the rumpled attire and dorky glasses, Quinn’s anything but menacing and she knows it. 

“For your information, that was high school, and Hanukkah was weeks ago. My romantic preferences have matured considerably since then, thank you very much.”

Quinn scoffs. “I find that hard to believe. So you’re saying you wouldn’t swoon if, say, someone did the whole _Sleepless in Seattle_ thing and wooed you atop the Empire State Building?”

Rachel blushes. “I don’t know! It would have to depend on the person.” 

“You’re a total sucker for romantic gestures, just admit it.”

“Says the person who slept with Santana after a damn _wedding_.”

Quinn shrugs, dispensing with the remainder of her mug in one fell swoop. “There’s nothing wrong with that. And anyway, it’s not like you could take one look at Santana and say she’d be bad in bed.”

“Gross!” Rachel squeals. “She’s still technically my roommate.”

“Well, you’re not _blind_ , are you? And anyway, who are you to get all high-horsey about it, anyway? What about you and what’s-his-name? Your square-jawed Adonis… Brody, that’s it.”

“That’s ancient history. And for the record, I at least kind of dated him. You could do so much better than Santana, honestly,” Rachel huffs. 

There’s a glimmer of something Rachel can’t decipher in Quinn’s eyes. Something challenging and almost mischievous. “Lucy Quinn Fabray! You cad!”

She shrugs. “I didn’t say anything.” Quinn pads into the kitchen more gracefully than she has a right to and returns with more eggnog. Even in lounge pants, she’s still stunning, and Rachel almost says so – but there’s this half-charming, half-irascible look Quinn gives her as she sits down on the couch that derails her train of thought. 

“You should tell me who this mysterious, not-Santana person is.” Rachel can barely keep a straight face, now, and between the warmth in her chest from the wine and Quinn’s relaxed vibe, it’s the best she’s felt in days, maybe weeks. “And if you say it was that professor person Santana claimed you dated freshman year, I’m gonna call bullshit.”

Quinn’s laugh is an airy thing, improbably graceful given their level of inebriation. “No, that was definitely all fabrication on Santana’s part. But as for that other thing, there’s no story to tell. It was after Schue’s wedding… and well, it was a difficult offer to resist. She – ahem, _this person_ – was gorgeous, but it was never meant to be anything but casual.” 

“I knew it!” Rachel exclaims, a little louder than she intended to. 

“Knew what?”

“Nothing! Just, you know, I never thought Santana was a phase like Kurt did.”

There’s an audible groan. “Great, I’m so happy to hear there’ve apparently been entire _discussions_ about my sexual orientation at Casa Del Rachel.”

“Well, to be honest, it was kind of a surprise. You being, you know, _into the ladies_.” Rachel stifles a giggle. “I’m just saying! Not that I mind, being of the I-have-two-gay-dads persuasion.”

“I see what this is,” Quinn says, her gaze vaguely suspicious. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

Rachel shrugs innocently. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Rachel hasn’t the foggiest idea how they get onto the subject, but eventually – perhaps predictably, given their blood-alcohol levels – she hears herself say, “Not that I’m belittling the intricacies of the Kinsey spectrum, but I’m frankly curious to hear your response: guys or girls?”

“I’m not saying I have a big enough sample size to acquire statistical significance—”

“Just answer the question, Ivy League! Guys or girls. _Very_ easy.”

“Fine! I’ll give you the satisfaction you’ve been aiming for. Girls, hands-down. It was always easier to put a damper on the physicality of a relationship with the guys I dated, but with girls” – _plural_ , Rachel thinks dully, with an insistent pang that feels a lot like jealousy – “it’s not like that, not for me.” 

The confession, while managed with Quinn’s usual sly charm, is unburdened: she’s reclining on the sofa with her hands behind her neck, less ruffled by her predilection that Rachel had anticipated – and in a way that has nothing to do with the liquor. It’s a good look for Quinn, if Rachel’s being honest. Not that she was ever blind to Quinn’s appeal, but she can see it even more clearly, now – Quinn being a heartbreaker, that is. To a bevy of Yale girls. Who happen to not be her.

“Well, _okay_ ,” Rachel murmurs distractedly. 

“Shut up, Berry. I’m not interested in your commentary. I am, however, interested in why you’re being so mum about your own affairs. Don’t think I haven’t learned a few things from Santana secondhand.”

Now, it’s Rachel’s turn to smirk. “Oh really?”

“ _Not interested_ ,” Quinn repeats stiffly, but there’s a reddish tint to her cheeks that brings Rachel a certain satisfaction. “I’m just saying, you ought to return the favor a little, is all.” 

Rachel pouts. “About what, exactly? What if there’s nothing to speak of?” 

“I doubt that very much, Berry. Have you _seen_ you lately? I mean, of course you have, but… You’re gorgeous.”

Rachel feels herself beginning to blush furiously. “Well, you’re just saying that because… you know.”

Quinn shakes her head vigorously. “No way. I have eyes, you know. I always knew you were beautiful, even when it didn’t seem like I did. Even Santana’s jealous, even though she’d sooner be waterboarded by Sue Sylvester than admit it to your face.”

“Bullshit,” Rachel exclaims, then giggles. “Jealous of my talent? I could perhaps believe that. But my appearance?”

“I believe your legs were a recent topic of conversation. And now that Santana can’t poke fun at your fashion sense – or lack thereof – anymore, even _she’s_ able to admit you’re disarmingly attractive.” Quinn’s face falls momentarily. “I know I… was at least partly responsible for convincing you otherwise during high school, but you have to know by now how radiant you are.” 

They’re both flushed and loose with their words, but maybe it’s because it’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to her in a long while and maybe it’s the way Quinn’s been looking at her all night – but Rachel impulsively places the faintest of kisses at the edge of Quinn’s mouth, too lopsided to be entirely romantic, yet too charged to be entirely platonic. Quinn stiffens against the feeling, but only for a moment: as Rachel retreats, she’s met by a familiar jolt in her stomach as Quinn’s hand softly cups her cheek. 

Even in her inebriated state, Rachel is aware she’s playing a dangerous game; to flirt with Quinn isn’t exactly harmless, but it’s innocent enough. But this is something else entirely. Whatever the exact proportions of loneliness, years of pent-up tension, and budding attraction going on, it can’t possibly end well. But Quinn’s eyes are impossibly hazel-green and fathoms deep, the kind of pool it’s impossible not to fall into. She’s always seen it, why it had been so easy for Quinn to get boys to fall in love with her; but the knowledge that _she’s_ the one who has caught Quinn’s eye fills her with a heady, almost intoxicating sensation. 

Rachel could call Quinn magnificent. She could kiss Quinn again, and properly this time – but there’s this faint trace of hesitation. She could call it better judgment or perhaps cowardice, but she suspects Quinn senses it too, for her hand falls and there’s a wistful smile in its stead.

“I’m sorry, that was… weird,” she’s saying, and Quinn’s not frowning, exactly, but she’s not really smiling either. 

“It’s okay, Rach. It’s not like I expected… you know.” Her voice is soft and a little awkward, and it makes Rachel want to kiss her more. “Besides, I’m pretty sure we’d make a terrible couple, anyway.”

Rachel’s response is quick, almost knee-jerk. “What makes you say that?” It hangs in the air like an accusation, and she wants to soften the blow, but predictably, she can’t think of anything to say in return. She’s pretty sure her expression is ridiculous, though, and at least that seems to diffuse the tension for a spell. 

Quinn laughs. Even in their intoxicated state, she’s so polished. “Aww, c’mon, it’s not an insult. I’m just saying, with our history? We don’t exactly have a track record of being the most even-keeled around each other.” She shrugs and collects their mugs, giving Rachel a thoughtful, tired smile that suggests maybe she’s sobering up. (Rachel isn’t.) 

“Well, it would still be the most functional relationship I’ve ever had. If we… you know.” She pauses, looking for Quinn’s expression, but Quinn’s got her back to Rachel and there’s no read on her yet. “Maybe that was awkward. But I’m just going to say it—”

Quinn’s voice is abrupt. “ _Don’t_. You don't have to say anything, Rachel.” Her voice is insistent, maybe a little nervous – she’s all lip-chewing and pleading eyes, the fault lines in her features becoming more evident. She looks older, more tired, and Rachel should look away but she’s holding Quinn’s gaze insistently, like it’s the only thing she knows how to do. 

“Anyway,” Quinn is saying, “It’s late. We should sleep. I think your fathers are finally breaking out the holiday carols tomorrow.” There’s this weary smile, just then, and Rachel’s dimly aware of how deeply her chest just _aches_ , looking at Quinn. “You don’t want to bring anything less than your best.”

“Never could,” Rachel murmurs half-heartedly, watching Quinn walk away. 

By the time Rachel regains her footing, she’s halfway up the stairs and Quinn has her hand on the door to the guest bedroom. “Quinn,” she calls feebly. She wants to wrap her arms around Quinn and be forgiven; she wants Quinn to murmur sleepily into her hair as they lie in bed, limbs entwined. She wants ⎯

She wants _Quinn_ , the way she always wants the wrong thing – or the right thing, when it’s the twelfth hour and the curtain’s about to drop. There’s a tired half-smile she receives from Quinn, a mumbled “Good night, Rachel.” And then the door closes with a finality that stings her. 

She doesn’t want to sleep alone, doesn’t want to ponder all the ways she’s ruined any chance at an easy friendship with Quinn. Doesn’t want to wonder if it’s only friendship she wants at all. 

If this were New York, she could slip onto the subway and be anywhere, _anyone_ in the furious, frenetic night – enveloped in the city air like a second skin, if only to quell the disquiet gripping her bones like the throes of a disease she doesn’t have a name for. If this were New York, perhaps her loneliness could be contained, reflected in the softened forms of passersby or the brittle hum of a taxicab radio on Lexington Avenue. She could lose herself in a stranger’s gaze, that fever dream of mutual what-ifs and passing glance. Or suspend disbelief with a sordid tryst or two, learn to covet the scent of an unfamiliar body, his – or her – hands, the curve of someone else’s spine like a map divesting its secrets. 

But in her attempt to conjure the guise of a stranger, her traitorous palette only draws in hues of hazel and dappled honey. It’s not a stranger she wants at all. 

It’s Quinn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from "Go Places" by The New Pornographers


	14. Sorry if it's twee but it's tomorrow's hope

“You’re an idiot,” Santana reiterates with a flourish that plays at scorn but carries none. They’re sitting in the corner booth at the Lima Bean on Christmas Eve, the fully realized merriment of the season palpable in every hushed conversation, every tinny sounding carol that bursts from the speakers. 

There’d been a knock at the door early that morning – after the litany of Spanish expletives, Quinn gathered that her mother had phoned Brittany’s mother (an erstwhile bridge partner) to let them know Quinn was in town, which is how Brittany came to know – and, inevitably, Santana – that Quinn had somehow been stowed away at the Berry residence for nearly a week and no one had been the wiser. 

Which is how Santana ended up on Rachel’s doorstep, staring down a puzzled Hiram Berry before she’d abruptly coerced Quinn into her car. Rachel, for her part, was still in her room – whether still sleeping or afraid to own to what had transpired, Quinn couldn’t say. And it was almost fortuitous, being thrown into the passenger seat and hurled away at breakneck speed, if only to avoid a surely awkward conversation with Rachel. 

Quinn nurses her latte with a frown. “You don’t even know the worst of it.”

She supposes the panic in her voice is evident, as Santana’s expression softens mercifully. Pity isn’t her style, exactly, but this is dangerously close. “Let’s face it, Fabray, you and the Hobbit never had great timing to begin with. What’s to say you shouldn’t just go for it?” 

Quinn’s expression sours. “Just because you and Brittany—”

“Leave me and Britts out of this. _Dios mio_ , since when did I become the Dr. Phil of gay? I’m telling you – for my sake and yours – tap that and end all this ‘woe is me’ bullshit. Just do Auntie ’Tana a favor and don’t invite me to your nuptials, ‘cause I’ll be busy throwing a funeral for Quinn Fabray, former Head Bitch in Charge.” 

“Nice. You’ve truly out-classed yourself, Santana.” 

“It’s a Christmas gift from me to you. And if you weren’t so desperate to get into Berry’s schoolgirl skirts, you’d agree that it’s hilarious.” 

It takes considerable resolve for Quinn not to sulk, but in spite of Santana’s ministrations – or perhaps because of them – her mood eventually lightens, particularly when Santana conjures a brightly wrapped package from underneath the table and places it before her. 

“Britts and I are renting a cabin in Vermont with her family after Christmas,” she mutters, as if by way of explanation. “Look, if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be doing this, but… it’s from the both of us.”

“That’s… remarkably civil of you. Just don’t go getting gay married without me,” Quinn counters with a certain satisfaction. “I’d hate to miss out on giving _that_ toast.” 

“Shut up and open it.”

Quinn peels back the ornate wrapping paper – no doubt Brittany’s doing, as it features a compendium of dinosaurs and other fantastical creatures donning Santa hats – to reveal a leather-backed volume entitled _The Sapphic Sex Guide, Volume One_.

It’s all she can do to avoid choking on her coffee. 

“Gotcha, Fab-gay!” Santana practically squeals. “Normally, thought of you and the little troll having relations would be enough to put me off eating for a week, but Brittany managed to convince me that the surest way to peace in New York would be for you two to start fucking ASAP. Also, I’m pretty sure she scribbled some stuff in the margins.” 

“I’m touched, really, that you’d be so concerned about my well-being.”

The smirk she receives belies a certain tenderness. “Between you and me, Q – and if you repeat this, I’ll categorically deny it – you got a lot going for you. You’re gorgeous, you’re like Ivy League smart, and when you don’t have your head up your ass, you get shit done. Plus, you’re not half bad in the sack. I respect that.”

Quinn gestures with her coffee stirrer. “And your point is what? That you’ve sustained some kind of head trauma and you’re leaving Brittany for me?”

“Fuck, no. It’s my way of saying that I want you to be happy, you moron. Everyone knows the holidays are prime time for all that sappy bullshit.” 

“You really know the way to a girl’s heart,” Quinn chimes with a grin. 

“Maybe not her heart, but I sure know the way to a girl’s—”

“And I think we’re done here!” Quinn splutters, unceremoniously sliding out of the booth. “I’ll send your Christmas present up with Berry.” 

Santana’s gleeful cackling heralds her return into the chilly winter air. She tugs her scarf closer; it’s not a far walk to Rachel’s house, not really, and her legs ache to be used for something more than the occasional stroll downstairs. She’s peppered in a fine dust of snowflakes before long. The sight of Rachel’s street, trees glistening with a fresh coat of powder, pulls at her chest, and Quinn is gripped with a sudden longing – more than wanting Rachel, she wants the _normalcy_ of this. Of walking back in an old coat meant for the skin of some other self and being greeted with an unfettered smile whatever the case, awkwardness and all. Because Rachel is _Rachel_ , and even if she’s blurring boundaries Quinn is too far gone to trace, she’ll make the best of it. 

But it’s not Rachel’s figure standing on the front lawn – it’s Hiram Berry’s. He’s thoughtfully regarding the Christmas lights dangling over the frame of the garage door, freshly hung with their boxes strewn about the driveway. 

“Not a bad job, eh?” he asks, by way of greeting. His brow is unburdened, whether by general merriment of the season or a sense of acceptance of her presence, Quinn isn’t sure. There’s a hint of snow on the frames of his glasses, and his lanky frame is positioned thoughtfully. 

Quinn nods mutely. “My parents didn’t really ‘do’ Christmas decorations, but for what it’s worth, I think they look lovely.” 

“Thank you, Quinn.” He pauses, cracking a wry smile. “I take it Santana released you from captivity?”

“It was more a calculated jailbreak, actually. I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

“Not at all. Santana’s antics… well, let’s say I’ve become accustomed as of late.”

Quinn laughs darkly, heading through the garage. “You and me both, Mr. Berry.” 

But his voice follows, a somber note echoing through the garage. “You know, I saw you. In New York, I mean.” 

She turns sharply. By his expression, Quinn’s sure her look is inadvertently chilly – so she softens, her posture less rigid than before. It’s a calculated pose, and her limbs want to buck at the unnaturalness of it, but she stays put. There’s a thread of anticipation in the air; she doesn’t chase it. 

“It was the day of the Winter Showcase, during intermission. At first, I wasn’t sure, but the second you strolled through the door here, I knew it had to have been you.”

Quinn chews her bottom lip for a moment. “Does Rachel know?”

His gaze softens. “I can’t imagine so. I never even told Leroy.”

There’s a low hum in Quinn’s throat. “And you want me to tell you why I was there?” Her voice is pointed, certain – a lingering holdover from the days when making someone quiver was something she could feel in her bones. (Contrary to what Santana might believe, she hasn’t shed _all_ her old habits.) 

Hiram chuckles, but his look is serious. “You don’t pull any punches, kid. I could ask you a lot of things. Why you’re the only one who seems to be able to get through to my daughter these days, for starters. But I think I already have my answer.” 

The door leading to the house makes an impromptu opening, preemptively halting what remained of their conversation. It’s not Leroy but Rachel, her look a quizzical one. She’s not donning Quinn’s sweatshirt this time but instead an oversized sweater, replete with matching fingerless gloves. Her breath fades in the air, an unspoken question dangling along with it. She can’t quite meet Quinn’s gaze – but she’s trying to.

Quinn opens her mouth to speak, but Hiram’s already ushering Rachel outside to view the stunning job he’s done with the lights. She brushes past Quinn, a demure smile thrown in Quinn’s direction – not the beaming expression she was hoping for, but there’s a certain lightness to her gaze all the same. It’s almost warming in spite of the chill. 

Quinn does not, however, expect to get intercepted by Leroy upon her first steps indoors. His deceptively gentle grin ushers her into the kitchen, where she is dubbed the sous chef of the afternoon and roped into preparing his grandmomma’s recipes for Christmas Eve. (It’s hard to resist a man who’s wearing an apron fashioned to resemble Santa’s outfit.) Not that there isn’t pleasure in it, listening to Leroy’s baritone rising above the kitchen sink and Quinn’s handiwork. She even joins in, after a spell, and it’s the nearest thing she’s come to family in months, this strangely tender moment amidst “Silver Bells” and “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.”

Half a bushel’s worth of vegetable chopping later, Leroy glances approvingly in her direction. “I knew you were up to the task,” he says warmly. “I’m afraid neither Hiram nor Rachel has such finesse. Or such a pleasing alto!” 

Quinn chuckles. “But I also don’t have Rachel’s powerhouse vocals, so I feel like knife skills are _almost_ adequate recompense.” 

As if on cue, Rachel strolls through the foyer into the kitchen, wearing a curious expression as she munches on a stolen carrot. “My powerhouse what, exactly?” 

“Never one to let a compliment sneak by, my star!” Leroy remarks brightly, drawing Rachel into a bear hug. “Quinn was just saying—”

“It was really nothing,” Quinn interrupts, but she’s overruled by the spark of – _something_ , heaven knows quite what, exactly – in Rachel’s eyes. “Just, um, whether or not my knife skills and tremulous alto are fair trade for your vocal prowess.” 

“Oh,” Rachel says. If there’s tenderness in her gaze, Quinn doesn’t mark it, for she’s returned to the dwindling pile of provisions left to slice and dice. 

Leroy capitalizes on the awkward silence. “Since you’ve been rendered speechless, Rachel, why don’t you put another holiday record on and dazzle us with your – what was it – ‘powerhouse vocals,’ as someone so recently put it?” 

Quinn nearly hacks off a finger in her flustered state. 

Later, when she’s survived the remainder of her prep work and is in the midst of changing for dinner, there’s a soft knock at the guest room door. Quinn half-stumbles over her suitcase reaching for the handle; and it’s Rachel – always Rachel – on the other side. She’s wearing _that_ dress, accented this time with gold tights and a red cardigan. There are red and gold stars on her headband, and it’s just too ⎯

“Um, hi,” Rachel’s saying, standing in the doorway like a stranger. 

“I was just—”

“Changing for dinner? Daddy said you might be.” There’s a softness to her words – not muted, not exactly, but something suddenly shy in ways that make Quinn’s mouth dry. 

“Would you mind zipping me up?” Quinn asks, her voice faltering briefly. Her fingers are balled up, impotent things, ineffectual as a child’s. Rachel slips behind her and Quinn is dimly aware of the need to breathe; she soaks in the shattered scent of evergreen wafting in the air, the vanilla and honey of Rachel’s bodywash. Rachel’s movements are nimble, her touch like prying apart the layers of something far more delicate than the task at hand. Quinn feels the absence of her touch acutely. 

“You look beautiful, Quinn.” 

Quinn’s posture relents. “So do you,” she says, like she means it. Because she does. 

Rachel, for her part, barely colors; she doesn’t flinch, either. “Thank you. I won’t pretend it still isn’t a little odd, hearing such comments from you. But I appreciate them nonetheless.” 

Quinn’s half-smile emerges, then fades. “So I guess we’re okay then, after what happened last—”

“Nothing happened,” Rachel assures her, perhaps brusquely. “It was stupid of me to think drinking so much was a good idea.” 

“Oh.” Quinn exhales, brushing her wayward bangs from her forehead. “Sure.” 

“Shit, I didn’t mean that – I mean I didn’t intend to imply that…” Rachel’s tiny frame stiffens as she huffs out a protracted sigh. It’s so dramatic, so _Rachel_ , that Quinn tries not to laugh. “This is really very awkward, you know?”

“I _do_ know,” Quinn reminds her gently. “But I also wasn’t the one asking all the impertinent questions last night.” 

“They weren’t that impertinent, Quinn.” Rachel’s hands are placed firmly on her hips and again there’s an air of the schoolmarm about her that Quinn finds strangely alluring. She’s still trying not to laugh, though. “It was merely a curiosity that I impulsively indulged. That just happened to be about your rather guarded personal life.” 

Quinn smirks. “So that’s what they’re calling it these days?” 

For a moment, Rachel looks half-aghast, half-flustered – she’s speechless for the second (perhaps third) time that day, and there’s a tug in Quinn’s chest that tells her it’s gone on long enough, like her better angels just returned from some sunny vacation. Soon she’s enveloping Rachel into her arms, murmuring, “It’s okay, Rach. Really it’s fine” like it’s nothing, the lingering ache in her throat when she stifles the words she’d rather be saying. 

“I’ve missed this,” Rachel admits, her voice barely a whisper. 

“Me too.” Her hands ghost along the small of Rachel’s back, and it’s enough for the time being – these stolen glances and covetous gestures, the kind she was barely bold enough in high school to steal. It has to be enough.

“Merry Christmas, Quinn,” Rachel murmurs in her ear, after a moment. “I’m glad you’re here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from "Think I Wanna Die" by Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin


	15. Keep me closer, I'm a lazy dancer (When you move, I move with you)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, I haven't completely abandoned these two! Real life just has a knack for getting in the way for a while... and sometimes that 'while' is many months. If you're still reading this, hope you enjoy. Title is borrowed from "Collect Call" by Metric.

It begins when Hiram, with his perpetual schoolboy grin, suggests exchanging one present apiece on Christmas Eve. 

Well, if Rachel’s being completely accurate, it really begins before dinner – the protracted music of Quinn’s graceful laughter, the sight of her in one of her fathers’ folded-down aprons, like Grace Kelly reincarnated as an Ivy Leaguer. Even Hiram, who took the longest to warm up to Quinn, looks pleased: just before they’re sitting down, when he’s passing glasses of wine around, he clasps Quinn on the shoulder and pulls her in for a half-hug with a tenderness in his gaze usually reserved solely for family. 

It’s all so picturesque that it’s unsettling. (It makes Rachel nervous. Even more so than the recurring nightmare that her NYADA audition turned into a reenactment of the entire discography of Slayer. Which is really something, all things considered.) 

Leroy, always one for the sentimental, is the first to propose a toast. “To resurrecting old holiday traditions and to new faces to share them with!” he declares over the cornucopia of holiday décor festooning almost every inch of the dining room – it’s something Rachel adores about her fathers, their sheer _commitment_ to an idea. 

Above the din of Billie Holiday’s distinctive trill on the record player, above the flickering of red-and-green striped candles, Quinn is beaming, and maybe it’s the last of the vegan eggnog and maybe it’s some distant holiday prayer once made, now fulfilled, but Rachel’s grinning too as Hiram cheers “Here here!” and steals a kiss from Leroy. The moment is redolent of warmth and splendor, stunning in the way Rachel feels more than merely the space she inhabits; she is _present_ , lifted out of her own headspace for a few precious hours, like someone is hanging tinsel in the lonely corridors of her chest. Rachel longs to capture each moment, to keep it – but all is fleeting apart from the tendril that keeps her connected, inextricably, to Quinn. 

To Quinn’s credit – and her Daddy’s – the meal is incredible. She never had the chance to meet Daddy’s grandmomma, who had sadly died just before she was born, but she can feel her presence in the food – can easily imagine just how vibrant and warm the woman must’ve been. It’s not a stretch to think of something calling Finn to mind in the same way, though she’s not sure what. (Football, perhaps? The sounds of Journey? No, that’s definitely Mr. Schue.) The fact that there isn’t a surefire tangible reminder of him, apart from the few photographs and trinkets they’d exchanged while dating – and engaged, albeit briefly – saddens her. 

It wasn’t his fault, exactly, that he wasn’t the most thoughtful gift giver. Really, he did try, and Rachel is much in agreement with what Quinn had said in the cemetery. Despite his faults, despite his inadequacies as a high school boyfriend, he would have grown into a good man. The part that seems to unnerve her most is that his story ended so resolutely in the middle, without even the semblance of a real ending. That’s the part that curdles her stomach the most – there wasn’t a bittersweet final exchange to hold onto, or a friendly letter to dispel the jagged edges of their history… just the unpleasant reminder that the last time they’d spoken, Kurt had been on the phone with Finn and Rachel had butted in on their conversation, promising Finn a Skype date that never came to fruition. 

She wants at least the meager succor of dreaming up such an exchange when sleep finally rushes in. But the dreams she has are darker, the tense cinema of the perpetually haunted. She’s never told anyone about them – not her fathers, not even Quinn. It’s a distance she needs to keep from Quinn, even now as she’s sitting across from Rachel, laughing at something juvenile or witty Hiram has said. She’s certain it’s something Quinn has experienced with Beth – those nauseating pangs of grief, of guilt, knitted into daily life, gripping her bones while she’s folding laundry or in the middle of the supermarket – but it’s not a conversation Rachel wants to have. She wants to be pulled headfirst into the swing of the holidays, the impeccable thrall of tinsel and brightly wrapped gifts, however superficial the charm. 

So she mostly allows herself. Leroy’s talking about his fondest Christmas morning memories growing up in Chicago, and even though Rachel’s heard his stories about a thousand times already, they feel new, somehow – embellished with Quinn’s cheerful laughter and radiant grin, or else the general splendor of the room. Rachel, unusually reserved, nevertheless gives herself permission to simply be present. It feels good. 

Surprisingly, Quinn chimes in with an anecdote of her own, as she stands over the kitchen sink washing up the dishes while Leroy places the finishing touches on dessert. “I don’t think I’ve told Rachel this, but when I was about eight, I went through a huge C.S. Lewis phase – you know, _The Chronicles of Narnia_ and all that? I went by Lucy back then, so you can imagine how easy it was to relate to the novels. Well, when I went downstairs on Christmas morning, there was a giant armoire next to the tree that my father had gotten for my mother, and I spent all morning in it ignoring my actual presents convinced that my dad had bought me a passageway to Narnia for Christmas. I cried all afternoon when I realized what it actually was. Needless to say, my sister likes to trot out that story in front of the family each year.” 

After having thumbed through family photos in the Fabray household, Rachel can picture the scene in perfect clarity – a bespectacled Lucy, clad in striped pajamas, trying to coax the magic from the creaking wood. Desperately wishing for another – _better_ – reality, much the same as Rachel had done at that age. 

She can even see a hint of Lucy in Quinn’s smile, mildly crooked with a bookish sort of charm, until Quinn is splashing Rachel with soap suds, soaking the tartan dishcloth she’s holding, along with much of the front of her dress. 

“Lucy Quinn Fabray!” Rachel squeals suddenly, throwing the towel back at Quinn’s aproned figure with a prowess that frankly impresses them both. She can sense that Quinn is raring to retaliate, but she sheepishly backs down in the face of Leroy’s quizzical brow and the subsequent call for dessert. 

It’s when Quinn mutters in her ear, “Don’t think I haven’t forgotten about that, Berry,” its husky overtones of mischief sending frank shivers down her spine, that Rachel knows it’s going to be a long evening. Which is how they end up on the living room couch, conspicuous Christmas tree hovering over them like a hulking holiday watchdog and the faint cacophony of crackling logs in their long-abandoned fireplace. Hiram is tossing around gifts and shaking them to reveal an audible trace of their contents while Leroy looks on – half-adoring, half-annoyed at Hiram’s boyish enthusiasm. There’s a single gift on Quinn’s lap; it’s been resting there patiently for a good five minutes, and Rachel can almost trace the movements her fingers made on the delicate paper like the notes of a song. 

The anticipation eats at her. It’s not even her gift – that is, she knows what it is. She just doesn’t know how Quinn will react. There’s a brief memory of traipsing aimlessly through the mall, willing her brain not to conjure the sense-memory of her hands around Quinn’s waist, scalp pressing against her collarbone. All that and empty-handed gratitude seemed farcical, then, juxtaposed against the shrines of mindless consumerism. So Rachel panicked. 

Which is why no fewer than five boxes sat underneath the tree emblazoned with Quinn’s name. Rachel’s not even sure what purpose it serves – is it to placate some dormant guilt? repay intangible kindness with tokens of affection? or else something deeper, more unsettling? 

The thought gets buried as Hiram – ever impatient – ceremonially opens the first present with Leroy’s blessing. There’s a tear visible through his glasses as he demolishes the wrapping paper to find two tickets to a National Geographic cruise. Ever the dilettante, he’d been engrossed in documentaries about the Galapagos for months, grumbling in his conversations with Rachel that Leroy simply wouldn’t acknowledge the myriad hints he’d been dropping about a vacation. He’s bright-eyed as a child, and any trace of lingering cynicism in his brow has been replaced by delight. She’s always known her fathers to be genuinely – even deeply – in love, and the sight of their embrace warms her. 

“Did you know about this?” Hiram asks her brightly, his curiosity readily apparent. 

Rachel shrugs innocently, relieved that the happiness brimming in her chest is genuine. She’d suspected Leroy to be plotting something of that ilk for weeks, and when his guilt (or excitement, perhaps) finally overwhelmed his suspicion of Rachel’s ability to keep the plot a secret, it was disclosed over coffee the day before the Winter Showcase. If she remembers anything from the afternoon, it’s how the news bloomed in her chest, seemingly parting the dreary New York skies and the wake of Quinn’s absence. 

Then Leroy unwraps a truly ridiculous Christmas sweater from Hiram; in the midst of his rich laughter, Rachel sees Quinn frowning at her vibrating phone. 

“I’m sorry,” Quinn mouths. Rachel spies Frannie’s name on the Caller ID, and there’s something like dread perched on the corners of Quinn’s mouth, barely perceptible amongst the façade of merriment in the room. Rachel understands this. 

But still – there’s this lingering thread of disappointment as she watches Quinn pad up the stairs, the soft billows of her dress swishing with each measured step. There’s a crooked wisp of hair that Rachel wishes she could sweep across Quinn’s delicate neck, and the intimacy of that thought drags across her mind until—

“Rachel, my star, is Quinn okay?” Leroy asks. Rachel does a double-take and realizes he’s now wearing a Christmas sweater which is – somewhat inexplicably – Broadway themed. She barely suppresses her grin. 

“I’m not sure,” she says, rising, letting the small, neatly wrapped box next to her awkwardly plunge off the couch. 

The door to Quinn’s room is slightly ajar, and instead of muffled voices or hushed tones, Rachel can clearly discern a woman’s voice – it calls to mind Quinn’s impeccable diction, but its pitch is slightly higher, sharper – and she assumes it must be Frannie on speakerphone. She knows nothing good can come of eavesdropping, but Rachel’s muscles are fixed at the moment, as rapt as her attention. 

“…and you know I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important, Luce,” Frannie is saying, her tone curiously devoid of merriment. It confirms Rachel’s suspicions that this isn’t simply a call of goodwill, and her heart suddenly aches for Quinn. 

“Frannie,” Quinn half-sighs. “What do you expect me to do – drop everything and be at Mother’s beck and call _again_? I’ve already exhausted what little savings I had on the movers, and I barely have enough to cushion me against expenses for the Spring term, and that’s even _after_ I renegotiated my financial aid package.” 

Frannie is silent for a moment. Rachel expects an edge of coldness to her reply, but she finds none. “I know, Luce, believe me I _know_. It’s been a tough year for all of us, and I wish more than anything that we could help—”

There’s rustling on the line – Rachel’s not precisely sure on whose end – but then she can hear a man’s voice, gruff with an authoritative edge. “Let me talk to her for a moment.” 

Rachel’s heart sinks further. Judging from Quinn’s silence, it’s not Frannie’s husband – the voice doesn’t sound young enough. So that leaves—

“Hello, _Russell_ ,” Quinn says dully, with a curtness to her voice sets off a familiar – if distant – tingle in Rachel’s spine. 

“I’ve already arranged the details. Your flight leaves in three hours. There will be someone to pick you up at the airport when you arrive.” 

“And what if I say no?” Quinn asks, faltering only a little.

“You’re a Fabray, Quinn, like it or not. If you want to keep going to that Ivy League school of yours, you’ll make the smart choice.” 

Rachel opens the door just as Quinn hurls her phone at the suitcase in the corner, hard enough to send it careening across the room. Rachel leaves it untouched, instead kneeling to embrace the shrunken figure next to the bed. Quinn’s dress is unfurled across the carpet like a crumpled halo, and there are tears in her eyes but Rachel is hugging her anyway, letting Quinn fall into her arms with surprising alacrity. She’s tracing figures down the small of Quinn’s back, suddenly aware of the rhythm of her breathing and the way Quinn’s frame feels smaller somehow, pressed up against her own. Rachel’s chest thrums with purpose, with clarity – it’s the last note of a flawless solo, the graceful arc of a final bow. 

In the silence, Rachel realizes two things: one, that she’s never had anyone need her before, not like this, and that thought alone is powerful enough to lift her out of the miserable headspace she’d been inhabiting; and two, that she’s dangerously close to falling in love with Quinn Fabray.


	16. We are powerful despite our injuries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope the wait for the update wasn't too terrible this time. As always, your comments/kudos/feedback is much appreciated. Title borrowed from "Calm" by Maritime. Enjoy!

It’s easier than Quinn expects to disperse with the usual pleasantries – Leroy and Hiram must’ve at some point been briefed by Rachel about how pathetically terrible her home life is, which she’s almost grateful for. It’s only when the last of her bags is being thrown into the Berrys’ sedan that the sight of the Christmas tree, magazine-perfect and festive almost to a fault, brings her body to a halt; its earnest splendor wounds her, and there’s a Joni Mitchell song right at her mind’s periphery – where exactly zero of her good ideas come from – that threatens to call the tears from their traitorous ducts. _Fuck Fabray pride_ , Quinn thinks dully, and caves into Leroy’s waiting arms like a child. Russell would never – had never – not like that. Like he _cared_. 

_Thank you thank you thank you_ , she’s mumbling, and Leroy’s so damn decent he doesn’t even care that she’s crying into his new sweater – which, in another life, she’d be teasing him about over hot cocoa.

Then Hiram clasps her on the back, his boyish mien muted by a sad smile, and she watches Rachel start the engine with a strange sense of purpose – like it’s happening to someone else, some _where_ else. But Rachel, for her part, doesn’t say a word – hasn’t said anything since she’d scooped Quinn off the floor of the guest bedroom as if tending to a wounded animal. (Which, Quinn concedes, is a fairly accurate estimation of her situation.) 

“Thanks for doing this, Rach,” Quinn says softly as they’re turning onto the interstate. It’s almost preternaturally dark, but by the flickerings of lamplight as they coast along she can see the faintest trace of _something_ ghost over Rachel’s features – something animated, almost indefatigable even. Like the Rachel Berry of old. 

She doesn’t really say anything else; neither of them does. Mercifully, the roads are clear – no ice, minimal traffic – and without even the radio to anchor her thoughts, Quinn slips languidly into sleep. When she wakes, she wakes to a lurch in her stomach, and somehow they’re already abutting the ‘Departures’ sign at the terminal; Rachel’s half-smile is a delicate thing, but there are furrows in her brow and something akin to pity in her gaze, and Quinn can’t help but suddenly buck at it – all of it. 

She hates that she knows so well the scent of Rachel’s skin, hates that she knows what it feels like to have her lips press against Rachel’s collarbone. Hates it like she hates how weak she is – in her eyes and in Russell’s. Hates that the anger has festered so long within her, like a rotten wound, that there’s nothing left but raw bone, and that means she can’t hate anymore. (Because even hate is less complicated than watching the girl she loves pity her.)

A burst of cold stalls her thoughts as she opens the car door; Quinn fumbles her hands into her coat pockets and catches upon the package she was saving for last – the one that wasn’t supposed to go underneath the tree. The one she’d spent months arranging, even when she was certain that she’d never speak to Rachel again. She slips it into the front pocket of Rachel’s coat – which, in their mutual hastiness, is really Hiram’s coat – as the skycap is taking her bags from the curb; when Rachel quirks an eyebrow in response, Quinn merely shrugs. 

“I forgot to put it underneath the tree,” she lies. It’s a small lie, really, an inconsequential thing, because the truth is too unwieldy for her to claim and aren’t the holidays an invitation to partake in mutual deception anyway? She loves Rachel for her persistent suspicion and the way she can tell Rachel’s blindly thumbing over the wrapping in her enthusiasm. 

But even this is a distraction, and soon Rachel looks at her expectantly. “You should go soon, or you’ll miss your flight,” she says unconvincingly. 

“Yeah,” Quinn breathes, and it’s awkward, because she’s freezing and her mind wants her body to move, but she can’t quite convince herself to walk through the double doors into the airport any more than she can convince herself that none of this is real – the phone call, the plane ticket, all of it. There are a half-dozen other conversations like theirs going on in the ‘Departures’ lane – on Christmas Eve in godforsaken Ohio, no less – and Quinn thinks that there must be worse fates than hers _somewhere_ in the country. That, at least, seems to steel her resolve, at least temporarily.

“I wish I could thank you enough, for everything,” Quinn says feebly, hoping there’s enough honesty in her tone for Rachel to understand the gravity of what has been gifted to her. Even so, it feels like a paltry offering. 

“ _Quinn_ ,” Rachel chides, almost playfully. “This isn’t a real goodbye. It’s just… I mean, we’ll see each other in a few days, right?”

(Funny – when did Rachel become such a good actress that Quinn wanted more than anything to believe her?)

“Yeah, sure.” 

Rachel’s goodbye hug is warm, though, and it drags the cold from Quinn’s lungs along with her breath. Quinn’s lips press against Rachel’s forehead, and when Rachel pulls her in tighter, mittened hands running down Quinn’s torso, it’s all Quinn can do just to remember to breathe. 

Rachel shoots her a knowing glance as they part, her smile something luminous and untranslatable. Quinn feels the brush of lips against her cheek, hears Rachel softly murmur, “Merry Christmas, Quinn.” There’s no trace of skittishness in her tone, nor can Quinn detect the usual reticence about her – instead, there’s an newfound easiness in Rachel’s movements that Quinn decides she’ll almost miss most of all. 

“I’ll call you when I land?” she says as Rachel places a hand on the driver’s side door. 

“Of course,” Rachel replies breezily. “Oh and Quinn? Just don’t go fawning over any of those ditzy California girls while you’re there, okay? I’d hate to see you ruin that _pristine Fabray reputation_.” Her tone is so earnest it stops Quinn in her tracks – until Rachel’s smile becomes something wry and sardonic, and it’s all so jarring that Quinn has to laugh. 

“Goddamnit, Berry,” Quinn says incredulously, still grinning – and there’s the barest hint of a wink before Rachel drives off, leaving Quinn to ponder the meaning of their exchange in the cold. She shakes her head and enters the terminal, letting the bright lights and tinny-sounding Christmas carols wash over her. She’s thinking about the Berrys, the brash unselfishness of their kind of love – Rachel included – all the way through security, until she’s somehow already sitting in her assigned window seat; all the love she’s felt from her own family has been stunningly, well, _conditional_. 

It ought to make her wonder why she decided to come in the first place – was it the thread of panic in Frannie’s voice? Or that old pang of obligation that stiffened her spine? Surely it wasn’t the vague threat of retribution from Russell; his looming presence had long since faded, held at arm’s length like the rest of Quinn’s ghosts. Quinn wants to feel empowered with resolve, but she can muster no such mettle. There’s nothing but a vague sense of dread – and the strangling feeling in the pit of her stomach when she thinks about Rachel. If the universe were kind, she might’ve already been cozied up by the fire, Rachel delicately nestled beside her. But she can have no such satisfaction. 

The first person to greet her is, predictably, Frannie – Quinn can see the relief evident across her features, and a pang of tenderness washes over her, too. She looks older than the last time Quinn had seen her, but there’s a faint crest of something luminous at the edges of her smile – motherhood clearly suits her in a way it hadn’t ever suited Quinn at the time. 

“Thanks for coming, Quinn,” Frannie is saying softly. “I know how happy you were in Ohio, and I hate to drag you away from that, but—”

“It's okay. Really, it’s okay.” Frannie’s husband dispatches with Quinn’s bags, and Quinn dutifully follows Frannie up the stairs to the twins’ room. She spends a few moments in the quiet darkness watching their tiny bodies fall back asleep after Frannie leaves to warm up some leftovers; it’s peaceful and rhythmic, their breathing, and Quinn wonders if there’s ever a time that she won’t think of Beth in these moments. But for once, it feels as if the future holds some promise – as if she too could enjoy the kind of normalcy that Frannie and Ethan have carved out. 

She takes a parting glance at the twin cribs and, still smiling, saunters into the kitchen. “So where is our darling mother and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

Frannie scowls lightly, but Ethan chuckles from the kitchen table. At least there’s still hope for the twins, Quinn thinks. “Mom and Dad left for a midnight service across town a few minutes before you arrived. Apparently, someone from Mom’s – ahem – _support group_ invited her a few days ago, and what with the injury, I think she needed to get out of the house – even if it’s to socialize with the Catholics.” 

Quinn laughs darkly. “Catholic mass _and_ so-called degenerate alcoholics? That can’t bode well for Russell.” 

“ _Lucy_ ,” Frannie chides, sliding over a plate. “Honestly, he hasn’t been half bad this whole time. And if it weren’t for his help juggling Mom’s appointments and physical therapy, I don’t think Ethan and I could’ve survived for this long.” 

Quinn gazes at Ethan, who merely shrugs and continues eating. Quinn supposes that to be successfully married to Frannie, this tactic must be deployed from time to time. 

“So you were staying with the Berrys this whole time, huh?” Frannie asks after a moment, her tone too casual to be anything but deliberate. 

Quinn drops her fork. “I thought that was what I said on the phone?”

“You did, but I’m only just putting the pieces together – when you said it was a school friend, I didn’t think of Rachel at first, and then I remembered.”

Ethan moves to clear the plates off the table. “Wait, this is _Rachel Berry_ we’re talking about? From that show choir video or whatever it was that you showed me a couple months ago, Fran?”

“Glee Club,” Frannie and Quinn reply, almost in unison.

Ethan munches on a Christmas cookie thoughtfully. “What a knockout! I mean, talent-wise, of course. That girl can sing. But I thought Fran said she was the – and I quote – ‘bane of your high school existence’?” 

Quinn chuckles softly, which frankly seems to surprise Frannie. She can’t help but find her sister’s husband’s awkwardness endearing – at first, when Frannie’d announced that she’d agreed to marry a California-bred lawyer, Quinn thought it reaffirmed Frannie’s status as a Fabray through and through. It wasn’t until she met the man – a few months after their wedding, when Frannie had taken her to lunch in New Haven as a truce – that she had to admit she’d been wrong to imagine him as the epitome of WASP-y and uptight. 

“It’s kind of a long story,” Quinn says, stifling a yawn. 

“It didn’t sound like a long story on the phone,” Frannie counters, perhaps knowingly. “It sounded like you were having the time of your life in Lima until we dragged you out West to help with Mom.” 

Quinn shrugs, bristling a bit at the invasive tone. “I told you – when I was moving all the stuff out of the old house, she came to help and we made up. She’s been having a hard time after… what happened to Finn.” 

“Well she’s certainly spirited, I’ll give her that,” Frannie says, heading into the kitchen. She curls into Ethan’s side and smiles. “You know she texted me right before you left for the airport? ‘ _Dear Frannie, this is Rachel Berry – apologies for using Quinn’s phone and for the intrusion. I trust you will take very good care of Quinn during her visit. If you could please text your address to this number, I would be forever grateful as I would like to send a few things to Quinn. Merry Christmas to you and your beautiful family. Yours truly, Rachel_.’ She even signed it with a gold star. Via _text_.” 

Quinn can’t help but beam. There’s a bittersweet ache behind it all, too, of longing and tenderness and amazement at Rachel’s ability to astonish her, after all this time. It makes her unguarded; it makes her _better_. 

Frannie is watching her curiously. “She seems very fond of you.” 

Quinn’s tone is even. “Well, you know Rachel’s enthusiasm. It used to be nauseating, but I’ve come to appreciate it.”

Frannie sighs, but her expression is tender – it’s familiar, the I’m-your-older-sister-and-you’re-being-dense routine of old. Ethan leaves with a smile and heads upstairs. Still, there’s an odd feeling of foreboding about the way Frannie’s hand touches her shoulder. 

“You don’t have to keep everything under lock and key, Luce. I’m not like Mom and Dad, you know – I just want you to know you can talk to me. About anything.” 

“Thanks, Fran,” Quinn murmurs, softening as Frannie pulls her into a hug. Her voice is quiet, but it carries. “You’re not wrong, you know. About me. Not Rachel, though. At least I don’t think so.” 

Frannie smiles, and something inside Quinn’s chest swells – could it be this easy, acceptance? “I wouldn’t be so sure, Lucy Q. But thank you for telling me. Truly. You know I love you to bits, no matter what. Ethan and I can’t thank you enough for everything.” 

“You too, Fran. Once a Fabray, always a Fabray, right?” 

The last thing she sees before she trudges sleepily up the stairs is her sister’s grin – she looks so like Judy when she smiles, but there’s too much affection in it to be anything but Frannie’s. It’s a comforting thing, to have Frannie look at her and see someone _normal_ – not a disappointment, not an abomination. Someone who is good enough to be loved. And really, hadn’t that been the endgame all along? Gone was Lucy Caboosey, or the mantle of Head Cheerio – it was just Quinn now. 

Now if only Russell and Judy could vaporize from the picture – wouldn’t that be a Christmas miracle? 

When Quinn finally retires for the evening, she settles down to a few missed texts from Rachel and one from Santana calling dibs on Quinn’s car because she and Brittany ' _totes can’t drive to Vermont without a little privacy, ya know_?' 

She texts Rachel back – it’s terribly early in Ohio, but she can’t quite resist. _Sounds like the caroling was an affair to remember – I’m sorry I missed it! But I miss you most of all. Merry Christmas, Rach._

She receives a text a few moments later, as she’s unpacking her pajamas: _We sure could have used your alto. Miss you too, Quinn. Wish you were underneath my Christmas tree instead of in California. Merry Christmas!_

Quinn decides that Rachel Berry is going to unwittingly be the death of her.


	17. You're the one I'm wanting, with the plainest clarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's another chapter - I hope you like this one! It's kind of a big one, as far as events go; you'll know why when you read on. As always, your kudos/comments/feedback are so very appreciated. Title borrowed from "St. Clarity" by The Paper Kites, which is a fantastic song.

The colors dance across the passenger seat window with a melody Rachel can’t quite discern; it’s almost beautiful, seeing New York on New Year’s Eve this way, until she remembers she’d been more or less dumped into the car at Santana’s behest, disrupting an otherwise perfectly fine evening at the apartment of one of Kurt’s fashionable friends. Where there was plenty of alcohol to be had, if not strictly ideal company. 

But truth be told, in the few days since she’d been in New York, Rachel had already turned down a couple of dates and New Year’s Eve party invites – it felt less important, coming back from her holiday break, and anyway, what good was New Year’s Eve if it wasn’t spent in the company of friends? Classmates that had barely texted her during the holidays were suddenly very interested in the prospect of not spending New Year’s Eve alone – and surely she had more self-worth than that. Even their compliments felt paltry and hollow, compared to the way they’d seemed a month before. 

“Please don’t puke in my car, okay?” Greg says nervously beside her, running his fingers through perfectly coiffed hair. 

Poor Greg, Rachel thinks. Except not poor Greg, she remembers, because in order to hitch a ride to JFK, she’d agreed to participate in one of Greg’s bizarre art projects, which inevitably would involve her dressing up in some strange costume and serenading— well, the details presently elude Rachel, but it’s safe to say that Santana will never let her forget her infamous participation. (Oh, the perils of theatre school. Rachel could write a novel.) 

Which is, to make a long story short, how Rachel found herself speeding through New York City to pick up Quinn from JFK, where her flight would arrive in a little over thirty minutes. 

_“Berry!” Santana calls from across the room, lazily entwined with Brittany, who is wearing a homemade New Year’s crown decorated with what appear to be cartoons of herself and Santana as Father Time and the New Year’s Baby, respectively. Rachel has to hand it to her – she’s never met anyone more exuberantly original than Brittany. “C’mere, you adorable little troll.”_

_Clearly, she’s drunker than Rachel imagined. Rachel is only on her second cocktail, but it’s a strong one, although perhaps not strong enough to screw her courage to the sticking place when it comes to dealing with Santana. She fiddles absent-mindedly with her bracelet as she shuffles across the living room, dodging partygoers in the throes of their revelry. It’s not that Rachel is immune to parties – she’s learned to lean less on alcohol and more on charm, and mostly she’s gotten through NYADA parties unscathed – but something about this New Year’s Eve feels… not empty exactly, but not nearly as triumphant as she’d imagined on the flight from Ohio._

_“Santana, Brittany,” Rachel says, nodding in lieu of a more enthusiastic greeting. Brittany converges on Rachel in a swift bear hug, then saunters off to find more drinks, swaying gracefully to the music._

_Santana too impulsively throws her arms around Rachel, and to her surprise, Rachel can feel herself hugging her back – clearly it’s a sign of the apocalypse. She ought to pinch herself._

_When they part, Rachel can’t help but look sheepish. Santana says teasingly, “What, Berry? I can’t hug my roommate every once in a while?”_

_“I just never pegged you as an affectionate drunk.”_

_“Me, drunk? Pssh, you gots it all wrong, Hobbit. It’s my New Year’s Resolution – I’m turning over a new leaf this year. You can even ask Brittany.”_

_“What’s the catch?”_

_“There’s no catch. Except you might want to get your ass to JFK ‘cause your girlfriend’s flight gets in in an hour. Ha!”_

_“My_ girlfriend _?” Rachel’s turning over the word slowly with her tongue. She can’t mean—_

_Santana’s smile is devilish. Brittany’s returning with another round and Rachel downs it as quickly as possible; she needs the haziness – or perhaps the clarity of it. It’s sickly-sweet, an unnatural shade of blue, and it burns going down, but it’s a satisfying feeling._

_“Surely you’ve seen her – about yay high, blonde, looks like she stepped out of a gay J. Crew catalog?”_

_Brittany pipes up. “Ooh, are we talking about how gay Rachel is for Quinn? Or wait… is it the other way around?”_

_Rachel can’t process the entirety of their conversation because – Quinn flying to New York… tonight? The thought happily pinballs across the corners of her mind for a moment. When Quinn had texted her last, there hadn’t been any definite plans to come back to New Haven yet, much less plans that involved flying into New York. And now, the thought of spending New Year’s Eve with Quinn, well that was… something._

_“Earth to Rachel!” Brittany laughs. She smiles at Rachel in that curious, slightly far-out way._

_“Too busy envisioning your blissful reunion?” Santana snipes. “You’d better get going, though, or you’ll miss your girl.”_

_“Why… why are you doing this?” Rachel asks slowly. “You can barely tolerate me. And now this is what – a gesture of goodwill?”_

_Santana shrugs; beneath the usual flippant air, though, there’s something of actual tenderness – it’s a thorny thing, sure, but Rachel knows it’s present. (Like a slightly less lethal species of shark.) “Look, Berry, I’ma level with you. Mostly it’s because she asked me to do it and I’d much rather celebrate with my girl—” At this, Brittany curls up to Santana with a tipsy grin. “—But also for the gay karma or some sappy shit like that. As much as it sincerely pains me to admit, you two losers might actually be good for each other. Now go get your girl before I categorically deny this whole conversation.”_

_Rachel’s smile is satisfied. “Love you too, Santana. And Brittany, if she gets any more sentimental, I fully authorize you to call a doctor.” Santana flips her off and Brittany does a mock-salute. Head spinning, Rachel searches for her misplaced coat and settles for stealing Santana’s instead. Karma, right?_

She arrives at JFK five minutes before Quinn’s plane is due to land, dodges a New Year’s kiss from a disappointed Greg – who is surprisingly very straight – and Rachel is soon sprinting to the Arrivals area. She spies Quinn a few minutes later, making her way through the terminal not quite aimlessly; she’s throwing glances around the unfamiliar territory in a way that pricks at Rachel’s sympathy. Her blonde hair is sleep-mussed and her glasses are slightly crooked, but even still, amidst the throng of passengers wandering to and fro, she’s lovely. 

Rachel’s sorely tempted to watch Quinn like this – anonymous, unseen – but her legs think the better of it and soon she finds herself parting the crowd to meet Quinn, smile unbidden. Quinn’s looking in the completely opposite direction, her shoulders slightly drooped under the weight of an overstuffed messenger bag; she’s the epitome of the weary traveler. 

“Hello, stranger,” Rachel murmurs. 

“ _Rachel_?” Quinn’s look of astonishment confirms her suspicions. But the surprise quickly fades into something warmer – she’s roused a keen smile, a little bemused and unexpectedly soft. 

“I’m your welcoming committee for the evening. Hope you’re not too disappointed.”

Quinn just laughs and envelops Rachel in a hug. And it’s easy: the grace of Quinn’s movements, the feel of her arms around Rachel, _everything_. She’d be happy to stay like this, but Quinn pulls away after a moment. 

“You know, you look… not as tan as I imagined,” Rachel says curiously, appraising Quinn’s figure. “Lucky for you, you’re still gorgeous.” 

“You like it?” Quinn replies slyly. She’s so beautiful – the dress Kurt suggested she gift to Quinn is a real knockout in person, the low neckline favoring her collarbone in ways that seem staggeringly unfair. “Well, I ought to be thanking you for that. And for sending the twins a Christmas gift as well. That was well played – you charmed the hell out of Frannie.” 

Rachel can’t keep from beaming. Right on the edges of her smile she can swear there’s tipsiness, but it doesn’t feel important. “I’m so glad. God, do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you, Quinn?” 

Quinn’s expression is sheepish, almost, as they walk to the baggage claim. Rachel’s hand travels across the back of Quinn’s peacoat, and there’s a hint of boldness in the way she’s eager to claim Quinn – surely it’s not just the alcohol? There’s the cacophony of happy reunions all around them, and a few passersby are wearing paper New Year’s Eve hats. It’s easily the most fun Rachel’s had at JFK. 

“You might’ve texted me you were coming, you know,” Rachel says as they’re waiting for the interminably tardy baggage claim belt. 

Quinn raises an eyebrow at this. She leans over to whisper in Rachel’s ear. “Maybe I was hoping Santana would get you to come pick me up. Maybe I like getting you like this. I hope I wasn’t interrupting any plans of yours?”

Rachel’s not sober enough for this conversation. Not by a mile. 

Clearly, the best course of action is to produce the miniature bottle of champagne she’d stolen from the party while they’re in the cab home. “How about we start celebrating the New Year a little… early?” 

Quinn’s surprise is evident, but she regains her composure quickly. If this is a game they’re playing, Rachel knows Quinn won’t tolerate being a step behind. “How scandalous of you. Or, it would be, if I hadn’t charmed the first-class stewardess into giving me these.” She produces an assortment of tiny liquor bottles from her bag that would appease even the choosiest of revelers. 

“How the hell did you manage that? Frankly, I’m impressed.” 

Quinn laughs – it’s airy, a little unrefined. Rachel finds this intoxicating. “Well, I may have used Russell’s airline perks to my advantage. Who needs a fake ID when you have charm and a lot of miles?” Then she’s unscrewing the vodka and offering it to Rachel. 

Rachel frankly abhors the taste of straight vodka, but she’s quick to take the bottle anyway. If this is one in a series of less-than-astute decisions she’s to make over the course of the evening… well, she’s fine with it, provided Quinn keeps looking at her with the same mix of intrigue, mischief, and charm. “To a very happy and healthy New Year – and to you, Quinn, for being fabulous.” 

“And to Rachel Berry, for always defying expectations. Cheers, Rach,” Quinn replies, clinking Rachel’s bottle with her own; Rachel watches Quinn tip her head back and gracefully down an inordinate amount of alcohol before she realizes she’s yet to drink any herself. Before she does, she looks at the cabbie, who is still engrossed in conversation on his Bluetooth, gesticulating wildly in a language Rachel can’t identify. So she drinks up and tries not to cough. 

They’re a few blocks from Rachel’s apartment when Rachel’s hand wanders across the hem of Quinn’s dress, across her shoulderblade – she hasn’t a clue why she does it, really, except that it looks soft and ornate and so very _Quinn_ that she feels the need. Quinn looks at her amusedly at first; her gaze seems to catch on the streetlight glow of Rachel’s wrist and the bracelet adorning it. The same bracelet Quinn had given her for Christmas outside the airport – the parcel too precious to be placed underneath the tree. On its sterling silver frame hangs miniature posters of all of Rachel’s favorite Broadway musicals, with one empty charm dangling near the clasp. It’s ornate and delicate and Rachel has no idea how Quinn knew exactly which musicals she loved most or how she acquired such a treasure. 

The next thing Rachel feels is Quinn running her fingers over its charms with an attentiveness that surprises her. She skims a finger across the back of Rachel’s hand; it’s slow and almost intimate, her touch. “It suits you,” Quinn says simply. 

“It’s absolutely perfect – I know I said so on the phone, obviously—” Rachel laughs off her own awkwardness. “But why is there one empty poster?”

“I thought you’d have figured it out. It’s for your first starring role on Broadway.”

Rachel silently says a prayer for the cabbie, whose impeccable timing saves her from a response – she’s speechless handing over the cab fare, speechless fumbling for her keys and holding the door open for Quinn. When they step across the threshold of her apartment, she’s almost grateful for the quiet emptiness – both Santana and Kurt are still ostensibly at the party. It’s when Quinn begins to head towards the living room with her bags that Rachel’s mind jolts awake again. 

“You’re definitely _not_ sleeping on the couch.” She picks up Quinn’s messenger bag and heads towards her bedroom. 

Quinn follows her with some mild grumbling but doesn’t protest. “You don’t have to let me sleep in your bed, Rach. Besides, what if you want to bring someone home to, ahem, _ring in the New Year_?” she asks drolly. 

Rachel rolls her eyes, one hand on her hips – it’s a little dramatic, her affect, but it elicits a laugh. “And who would _I_ bring home at a party of one of Kurt’s friends?” (She’s almost tempted to end that sentence with ‘that isn’t already currently inhabiting my apartment,’ but that seems a little forward even for her.)

Quinn spares a glance from her suitcase, where she’s unpacking a pair of pajamas. “I’m just saying, I don’t want to cramp your style, is all,” she says, yawning. 

“Don’t you dare tell me you’re thinking about skipping out on the party, Quinn Fabray! If we hurry, we can walk there and still make it in time for another toast before the ball drops.” 

Quinn’s all pursed lips and knitted brow; there’s a gentle weariness about her that’s not quite alcohol or mere tiredness. It’s yet another facet of Quinn Rachel can’t quite unpack. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much company – really, you go ahead and have fun.” 

Rachel pokes at Quinn’s ribs playfully. “You won’t even come to scout out your midnight kiss?” 

“Not a chance. Anyway, I’ve never had one, and I’m not about to have my hopes dashed by a variety of snobbish fashion-types. Especially if none of them place a high priority on my particular set of chromosomes.” 

Quinn’s admission stops Rachel dead in her tracks – she could start on a rant about how gender expression is not determined by biology, but she’s too busy thinking about the fact that Quinn’s never had a midnight kiss. She sits beside Quinn on the bed – the room a little too spinny for her liking – and is suddenly dogged. “You’ve never been kissed at midnight? Not even with Puck, or Finn?” 

Quinn shrugs. “It’s not that big of a deal, really. It’s not like I’ve never been kissed or anything; I’ve just never had a New Year’s Eve kiss.” 

Rachel pouts. “I find that incredibly improbable. You’re Quinn Fabray, ex-Head Cheerleader; people would have gladly mauled each other for the chance to kiss you in high school!” 

“And I probably would have let them. But not tonight. Tonight, my only date is with your bed and the back of my eyelids.”

Rachel shoves Quinn onto the bed. “Typical Ivy Leaguer. ‘Party’ doesn’t seem to fall in your extensive vocabulary.” 

Quinn abruptly pulls Rachel down with her; Rachel’s arm awkwardly falls across Quinn’s chest, and she buries her head in Quinn’s shoulder to keep from straddling her – which, admittedly, was almost a temptation. Then Quinn’s arms surround her and she falls into them willingly, taking in the scent she’s come to associate with Quinn. 

“You should go,” Quinn murmurs into her hair. “You don’t want to miss the countdown. Or your mystery midnight kiss.” 

Rachel sits up after a beat. “I didn’t realize I was that unsuitable of a cuddler,” she says with a huff, her tone full of false chagrin. Quinn laughs, sprawling out further on the bed as Rachel stands and stretches. “Anyway, any talk of midnight tomfoolery was for your benefit. I’ve already dodged one unseemly suitor tonight, and I’m afraid I won’t chance my luck.” 

Quinn raises an eyebrow. “Oh really now?”

“Shut up, Quinn!” Rachel calls from the adjoining bathroom. She’s looked worse, but still, Rachel half-dreads Kurt’s derision at the state of her hair and makeup, so she reapplies. If Quinn won’t accompany her to the party, she has no qualms about going alone – it’s only a minute or two’s walk, and she’s itching to get even with Santana, or else possibly scour the crowd for someone a tad less creepy than Greg. She tries not to think about the fact that she already has a beautiful girl in her bed. Tries not to think about what exactly Quinn feels for her, or what she feels for Quinn in return. 

(She’s already spent the better part of a flight to New York making flowcharts and diagrams, and none of them end well. People don’t stay in love with Rachel Berry; it’s just the way the world works. She can try to act the leading lady, but off-stage, she’s not exactly the archetype. Which is why she’s accepted that whatever Quinn had felt for her, however flattering and thrilling the prospect, it’s not love. At least not anymore. It’s simply impossible.) 

Rachel fetches another coat from her closet – a charming vintage A-line she’d gotten with Kurt at some hole-in-the-wall store in the East Village – and finds Quinn engrossed in a large novel she doesn’t recognize, already in her pajamas. A sharp pang of tenderness pricks at her chest, seeing Quinn, in her bed no less, like this: relaxed, stripped of makeup and other façades in a way she suspects few have seen. 

Quinn gazes up and smiles. “Wow, Rach, you look—” 

“Like a ’fifties housewife? I know, Kurt says so every time I wear this.” 

“I was going to say lovely, actually,” Quinn replies gently. “It’s a good color for you.”

There’s a faint flush creeping along the base of Rachel’s neck that threatens to color her cheeks; she tries to will it away, because Quinn shouldn’t have that power over her. It’d be simpler if she didn’t. “Well, thank you,” she mumbles. 

“If Kurt can’t see how beautiful you look, he’s an idiot. Strike that, if everyone at the party with even an ounce of heterosexuality doesn’t fall in love with you, _I’m_ the idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Rachel protests, gathering her bag. “But I doubt you’re right about that.”

“I would argue, but I’ve got a book that needs reading and you’ve got a party that needs attending. Only a few minutes left to find a handsome stranger to kiss, after all.” 

_And what if it’s not a handsome stranger I want to kiss, after all?_ Rachel thinks. She says nothing, just roots through her bag for the champagne, which survived the taxi ride untouched. “Would you say no to a last-minute New Year’s toast? Since you’ll miss the party.”

Quinn appraises her curiously. “Without any glasses?”

“Maybe Santana’s rubbing off on me. Anyway, you’re one to talk.”

Quinn grabs the bottle of champagne out of Rachel’s hand and holds it at an angle, awkwardly. “All right, to whom should I toast?”

“Don’t get smart with me, Quinn!” Rachel scolds, then softens as she sits beside Quinn on the edge of her bed. “Let’s toast to Finn – after all, if it weren’t for him, maybe we wouldn’t have… you know, gotten close this year.”

Rachel’s inside knot a little awaiting Quinn’s reaction, but Quinn just quietly smiles and nods. “To Finn. Wherever you are, may you be at peace knowing your two slightly crazy ex-girlfriends have made amends.” Her expression is mildly roguish as she finishes, and she can hardly take a swig of champagne for laughing. 

“You’re supposed to be serious!” Rachel laughs, taking the champagne for herself. It’s cheap and tastes awful, but for stolen champagne shared between two broke college students, it feels more or less apropos. She places the nearly empty bottle on her nightstand; Quinn is still smirking, her book now conspicuously discarded at her side. Her phone reads 11:56 and she’s stalling, her limbs quite refusing to leave the bedroom for the throng of unfamiliar revelers and the dimming prospect of actual enjoyment. It feels foolish and futile, pressed up against the idea of remaining here, with Quinn. 

“You’re going to miss the countdown,” Quinn remarks evenly. 

“It’s not important. Maybe I decided I’d rather stay here.”

Quinn’s smile is a hesitant one, almost contemplative. She runs a hand through her hair; there’s nervousness in the gesture, Rachel decides. It’s lovely, seeing her a little ruffled like this. “You didn’t have to stay for my sake, Rach.” 

It’s nearing 11:58. Rachel’s removing her coat now. “Maybe I wanted to,” she admits softly. 

“But surely Santana and Kurt will be wondering where you are?” 

Rachel laughs. “Santana’s got Brittany, so _definitely_ not, and I think Kurt had his eye on someone, too.”

“But not you?” Quinn asks, a little haltingly. 

“Maybe.” Rachel feels a smile blooming across her features – slow, satisfied. She knows it’s wrong to flirt shamelessly with Quinn like this, walking the tightrope between friendliness and innuendo. But she’s not feeling particularly cautious tonight. 

11:59, and Rachel’s senses are immersed in the shouted countdowns of rowdy neighbors and those partygoers now filling the streets. It’s almost like being in Times Square, and for a brief moment, she imagines the crowd – heady with anticipation, a little drunk with excitement. It’s how she feels right now. 

10, 9, 8, 7… “Happy New Year, Quinn,” she’s saying, her words a little too weighty to be casual. 

But Quinn seems not to notice as she replies in kind. Bespectacled and pajama-clad and a little hesitant, she’s absolutely radiant in the dim lamplight of Rachel’s bedroom. Rachel has possibly never wanted to kiss someone more in her life. And if she can’t kiss Quinn here, at midnight, with courage supplied by equal parts alcohol and foolishness, she might not get the chance—

So she’s closing the distance between them, a little timidly but too purposeful to be mistaken. Her lips press against Quinn’s gently as the crowd explodes outside – her brain registers fireworks, maybe – and Quinn’s stock-still for a moment, but only a moment. Her fingers slide across Rachel’s jaw and she feels Quinn yielding to her, her mouth warm and pliant. She tastes of bad champagne, sweet enough to be a little sour, but Rachel doesn’t care, is kissing her with abandon, her own hands making their way to Quinn’s spine, mapping the graceful arch until they reach the small of her back, poised on a patch of bare skin between Quinn’s top and her pajama pants. God, she _wants_ Quinn, the way Quinn is capturing her bottom lip right now, coaxing a brittle hum somewhere in the back of Rachel’s throat, and the way her hands now seem to find Quinn’s hips instinctively, drawing Rachel onto the bed and atop Quinn without a second’s hesitation. 

But something about the way their bodies lie together, her torso now flush with Quinn’s, makes Quinn’s kiss only more delicate, dissipating a little of the frenetic pace that had built between them; Quinn’s hands fall from Rachel’s face as their lips pull apart, and she moves to brush a stray thread of hair from Rachel’s forehead with a touch so intimate Rachel nearly forgets to breathe. In the thick, expectant silence, Rachel’s heart continues its insistent pace, and Rachel kisses Quinn again, softer, less needy, because she needs to fill the space with something apart from words, afraid that her tongue – like her heart – might betray her. 

“ _Rach_ ,” Quinn, ever the voice of reason, breathes into Rachel’s lips. “What the hell are we doing?” 

_I’m waking up_ , Rachel thinks, but doesn’t say. _I’m coming alive_. It’s stupid, anyway, the way Quinn’s beauty holds her tongue captive, makes the words thick and useless. She feels naked underneath Quinn’s gaze. 

“I don’t know,” Rachel replies, a little breathlessly. Except she does know. Now that Quinn’s body is no longer a stranger to her, she knows exactly what she wants. Knows what the incipient threads of desire feel like as they push and pull within her, tugging at all her viscera like caged animals. 

With a final brush of softness against Rachel’s cheek, Quinn kisses her forehead and they move apart; Rachel’s sitting, dazed, against the headboard, too afraid to look at Quinn and see only regret in her expression. How could she apologize for what transpired between them, for the release of months, if not years, worth of pent-up tension? How could she explain the fear that grips her bones, begging her to return from the precipice they’d both leapt from – where she could admire Quinn safely, from a distance. Before she understood the danger fully, of her want. 

“I’m sorry, Quinn, I don’t know what must’ve come over me,” Rachel hears herself say, coward-like. She is not this person; it is only self-preservation nimbly rattling the cage of her words. 

Quinn regards her sharply, her eyes no longer honey-dappled and flecked with desire; she sees a shadow, a hardness, sweep over Quinn’s features like the protective mask of old. _You don’t have to hide from me_ , Rachel wants to say, but the words somehow strangle themselves in her mouth. Whatever passion had swelled up between them hangs in the air like smoke, dissipating before her eyes. 

“It’s okay,” Quinn says hollowly, her tone affirming the contrary. She looks smaller, wedged inside this false resolve, and it makes Rachel ache – this fiction, this deception that’s burgeoning between them. “I guess we both got a little carried away in the moment.” 

Hadn’t Quinn looked at her differently, in the seconds after their mouths had parted? Hadn’t she seen the yearning, the wildness reflected in her own eyes? Rachel understands the temptation to dissemble, to explain away the thing between them, unruly and untamed. But every time, she’d have kissed Quinn. She has to understand that, at least – Rachel has to tell her, has to halt the progression of falsehood before it consumes them. 

“What I said before – I didn’t mean it. About not knowing why I kissed you.”

Her words seem to prick at Quinn’s curiosity, at least – at the mask that’s unraveling, just a bit, before her eyes. “Why did you kiss me?” Quinn asks, and it sounds less like an accusation; it’s a little pleading, a little raw, and it makes Rachel love her more. 

Rachel inhales, breathing out the last trace of her fear before she replies. “Because I wanted to. I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time, Quinn.” 

“ _Rach_ ,” Quinn exhales. It sounds less like a caution than a prayer. She reaches for Rachel’s hand and finds it. 

Then, instead of Rachel’s words, or Quinn’s, there’s a distinct cacophony hailing unmistakably from the entrance of her apartment. 

“Happy New Year, putas!” 

_Shit_.


	18. I guess the Lord must be in New York City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... It's been awhile. (A year to the day -- how did that happen?!) If you're still reading this, you deserve a medal. In lieu of that, I humbly present you with this chapter, which will hopefully suffice. I'm fully committed to seeing this thing through, in my own way. I'm thinking one, maybe two more chapters? We're getting close, and hopefully you're excited about that. Chapter title cribbed from the song of the same name by Harry Nilsson.

Quinn doesn’t feel any differently the moment the plane touches down at JFK; in fact, she doesn’t even feel differently after texting her mother to say that no, she hadn’t died a fiery death somewhere over Oklahoma and yes, Russell _had_ been generous with his offer to finance the remainder of her studies at Yale and of course, it _was_ wonderful they’d all be a family again. The only thing that had felt a bit different was seeing a non-zero balance in her savings account – sure, Russell wasn’t jumping to cash in on his PFLAG card, but he had (apparently) done a fair bit of soul-searching after his heart attack and decided that, rather than homosexuality, the bigger abomination was never speaking to your child again.

Quinn dutifully tucks the thought deep in the recesses of her brain, where the tangled threads of her family twist upon themselves, and curses Santana yet again for not answering her phone. The leather straps of her bag are starting to dig into her right shoulder and she doesn’t want to think about having to hail a cab alone on New Year’s Eve—

But then there’s Rachel. Quinn’s mulling around the jam-packed Arrivals area and nearly dismisses her for a bleary mirage; there’s no way she’d get that lucky. Except she knows better now than to trust Santana to do anything, and Rachel’s looking too corporeal to be a vision, too familiar to be a stranger. The smile that envelops her as soon as Rachel’s arms do is refreshingly solid, a departure from the brittleness she was used to trotting out in front of her parents, even now.

It feels different, here, with Rachel. _She_ feels different – better, even. As if the California sunshine might’ve worked its way into her bones, dissipating the numbness gathered like winter inside her marrow. It’s a gentle sort of clarity – to be here, really present, with the girl she loves, whose smile is infinitely mischievous and staggeringly genuine.

And so, really, Quinn can’t be blamed for flirting a little.

Somehow Quinn finds herself saying “Happy New Year, Rach,” more diffidently than her pride would like. Rachel’s been brazenly flirting back all night, and as much as Quinn’s enjoyed it, she wonders if Rachel knows they’re playing a dangerous game. But Rachel’s been looking at her all night with this spark of something Quinn doesn’t have a name for, yet – this maddening, luminous thing that sends Quinn’s pulse racing at the most inopportune of times. (She loves this Rachel more than she can fathom.)

Then Rachel’s leaning closer, as if to kiss her. It registers, vaguely, that Rachel might’ve wanted Quinn to be her midnight kiss, but it’s so dim a prospect that she brushes it aside – and, in that moment of pondering, Rachel’s lips press against hers, a little hesitantly and chastely enough at first. 

(If Quinn’s only – by some miracle – getting this chance once, she’s going to get it right.)

So she kisses Rachel back. Rachel’s mouth yields easily to hers, supple and marvelous. It isn’t the gentle, diffident kiss Quinn has imagined – it’s _better_. She hadn’t – couldn’t have – predicted the way Rachel’s hands would roam across her back, tugging her closer as their lips again wetly collide. She registers this impreciseness in the meeting of their mouths, and Rachel’s lips against hers soon become more decided. Quinn moves to kiss the perfect hollow of Rachel’s throat, her bottom lip. Rachel lets slip a moan, a little breathless, and Quinn can only think, _I did that_. In Quinn’s mind there is only light, only _Rachel_ in her arms, beautiful in her wanting.

Rachel’s fingertips catch on the waistband of Quinn’s pajamas and her hands find Quinn’s hips – she pulls their mouths together headily, a little clumsily, in response – and then Rachel lifts herself gracefully above Quinn, taunting the boundaries of where Quinn’s body seems to end and begin. She steadies Rachel and it becomes realer, now, what they’re doing – now that the pressing of Rachel’s body against her own is no longer unfamiliar, is strikingly present and _alive_.

She tucks a strand of hair behind Rachel’s ear, contented for a moment with gazing upon her, lips unoccupied. She’s luminous really – her smile, only just shy at the corners, fills the space between them – and then Rachel’s kissing her again, softer this time, a little nervous and so lovely it hurts. 

“ _Rach_ ,” Quinn exhales against her lips. There’s caution echoing from some long-dormant part of her brain, playing at answers Quinn isn’t sure she wants. She asks anyway, fool that she is. “What are we doing?”

Rachel’s brow furrows; there’s a tenseness to her Quinn can feel, now, and it pulls at her chest, a different ache. She could’ve said nothing, after all, and Rachel might never be looking at her like this, trying to pin some rationale to her actions – their actions.

“I don’t know,” Rachel says, reticent enough for Quinn to let them part, the taste of Rachel’s skin, of Rachel’s mouth, now dying on her tongue. (It burns Quinn to think she might never know that taste again.)

Quinn isn’t entirely sure what she says next, only that Rachel’s sitting beside her, flushed and bruised-lipped in a way that still makes her ache. Then –

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time,” Rachel says plainly. She doesn’t quite meet Quinn’s gaze, but it’s enough – it makes Quinn a little weak in the knees, makes her remember all the times she wanted to kiss Rachel and didn’t. Was Rachel thinking about kissing her, too? And for how long? She feels her hand grasp at Rachel’s as room deflates a little, dark and near and quiet.

And then it isn’t quiet. They’re walking into the living room, greeting Santana and Brittany, who usher them (with a hearty bit of teasing on Santana’s part) outside for sparklers and more champagne. Quinn sees the promise of sleep flitter before her, ever dimmer, as she follows Rachel.

Then she’s nursing a half-empty cup of terrible champagne outside Rachel’s apartment, a coat hastily thrown over too-thin pajamas. It’s not that the revelry of the occasion escapes her, or that she’s turned dour in contemplation; in truth, she’s weary enough from travel and from trying to wrap her mind around Rachel that she’s happy to be a wallflower. The old Quinn, of Head Cheerleader fame, would have balked at ceding the spotlight, but 2014 Quinn is perfectly contented with sharing it.

Rachel, sparkler in hand, strides over blithely. “Penny for your thoughts?”

Quinn catches her by the forearm, deflecting the fizzling. “I wouldn’t point that thing at me, Berry.”

Rachel’s laugh is loose, unburdened. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a few sparks.”

The irony of her phrasing isn’t lost on Quinn. She swallows. “Frannie tried to make us dinner when we were kids and nearly burned down the kitchen. Let’s just say fire and I don’t get along so well.”

“Oh.” Rachel shakes the sparkler and it peters out. “I thought you might’ve been thinking about something else.”

Quinn shrugs her coat a little tighter. She spots Santana and Brittany in the periphery of her vision, happily doing a drunken sort of waltz. She almost envies them for it. “About what?”

Rachel leans closer. (She doesn’t envy anyone, now.) “About what happened… before we were interrupted?”

Quinn softens. Surely, she must know; surely she doesn’t need Quinn to say it. “The part where I’m still not sure it actually happened, or the part where I’m hoping it wasn’t just a one-time thing?" 

“Oh.” Rachel pauses delicately, her reticence a little child-like – no, a little nervous. This realization makes Quinn’s chest thrum a little harder. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t having second thoughts. And I guess you’re not, so that’s – well that’s—”

It’s admirable, really, the way Rachel does this – pulls Quinn soundly off her axis. “It was lovely, Rachel,” Quinn interrupts. “A little unexpected, maybe, but lovely nonetheless.”

“Really?” Rachel asks, a little stunned. There’s a hint of naïveté about her that’s still so familiar, even years after – a trace of the old Rachel, hideous sweaters and knee-high socks that might’ve given Quinn a few unsolicited thoughts late at night.

“No one’s ever told you you’re a good kisser? I find that hard to believe,” Quinn replies wryly. The misdirection is a comforting one.

She can see traces of Rachel’s breath escape as she laughs. “Not really. I mean, maybe Puck, but I suspect that was just to bolster his chances of getting into my pants.”

“That does sound like something he would do. And I speak from experience, sadly.”

Rachel smiles. “Gross.”

Quinn playfully shoves Rachel in the arm. “Tell me you’re not suddenly freaked out by the fact that we conspicuously shared a couple of boyfriends? Which, I know, is admittedly kinda weird.”

“Weird doesn’t even _begin_ to cover our relationship, Quinn,” Rachel retorts wryly. Quinn can’t help but laugh with her, a keening thing. “Too soon?”

“Maybe a little,” Quinn mumbles, shuffling her slippers – a worn-out pair of Kurt’s, she thinks – on the curb as “Auld Lang Syne” plays on repeat from someone’s stereo.

Rachel’s fingers curl around her forearm. “C’mon, let me have the first dance of the New Year, Quinn.”

Quinn lets herself get lost a little in Rachel’s arms, feeling the rest of the world sink to the dim periphery of – well, _something_. Until there’s only her and Rachel, a little tipsy and uncoordinated, and a melody played just for them.

Rachel’s head is nestled just atop Quinn’s shoulder and no one in particular is leading when she says softly, “Thanks for the best New Year I’ve ever had, Quinn.”

The apartment is still empty when they head back inside. Quinn timidly removes her coat in the living room; she can hardly make out Rachel’s form apart from the lazy glow coming from the window – sparklers or lamplight, Quinn can’t decide. She drapes it over the couch and hesitates, until Rachel’s voice calls from her bedroom.

“You coming, stranger?”

Rachel’s hanging up her coat and it must be the alcohol, surely, because Quinn feels herself skipping her fingertips over Rachel’s collarbone, savoring the scent of city streets and perfume mingling on warm skin.

“You have a real knack for leaving a girl speechless, Quinn Fabray,” Rachel says at last, perhaps a hint of mischief in her tone.

Quinn’s lips hover across Rachel’s neck. “Sorry not sorry,” she breathes into Rachel’s ear, before smirking her way across Rachel’s room to retrieve her novel from its place on the end table. She can feel the headiness of the situation she’s created, the taught gaze of Rachel still watching her – it’s intoxicating, this push-pull of want and mutual restraint.

Quinn paws at the door handle as Rachel removes her shoes. “I’m, uh, gonna grab some water – want anything?”

“Wait.” It’s all Rachel has to say, really—

Quinn’s back is to the doorframe now, and Rachel is impossibly close, all blown-pupiled perfection. “God, Rach,” Quinn breathes – it’s as close to a prayer as any.

Rachel’s nose touches hers; if Quinn just moved — but she doesn’t, or can’t. She’s mesmerized by the thrumming of Rachel’s pulse point, the flecks of honey in her irises. Desire makes every atom of the space between them seem to hum with possibility; if this is the precipice from which they can’t return, Quinn wants to leap from it with abandon. But she needs to wait for Rachel to join her.

And Rachel does – eliminating the space between them in a kiss that can only be described as searing. Rachel presses her against the door, cupping her jaw to deepen the kiss. Quinn responds by pulling on Rachel’s bottom lip, already kiss-swollen from before; it’s heady and a little lazy, the way she relishes in capturing Rachel’s mouth, earning a soft whimper for her efforts. Quinn’s hands roam down Rachel’s flank, pulling against the thin fabric of her dress with a heightened insistence. The feeling of Rachel’s body against her own still marvels her senses in its newness.

There’s a pause that escapes in Quinn’s mouth, coaxed into a moan by Rachel’s tongue. Quinn’s an inch or two away from cupping Rachel’s ass when Rachel whines her name.

“What?” Quinn husks. “Tell me you didn’t enjoy that.”

Rachel only nips at Quinn’s neck in response, murmuring against the column of her throat, “We should really stop.”

“And why’s that?” Quinn lifts Rachel’s chin so they can properly kiss again; Rachel’s thigh slips between her legs and she gives a shudder. There’s a rumbling, a stirring of desire low in her belly, threatening to overtake her, and she languorously uses her reach to hike up the fabric of Rachel’s dress, her touch wandering over the perfect canvas of Rachel’s curves, now exposed.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Rachel exhales, and it surprises them both – the heatedness of what they’re quickly falling into.

Quinn runs a hand through her hair – horribly tussled from Rachel’s ministrations – as Rachel steps away, smoothing out her dress. “You kinda started it,” is all she can think to say, and lamely at that.

“I know, I know,” Rachel replies, collecting their coats off the floor. Quinn lifts hers from Rachel’s grasp, and Rachel regards her guiltily, like a scolded child. “You just – the way you were looking at me, it made me want to— And you’re _gorgeous_ and I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that you want me when you could have anybody—”

“Rachel,” Quinn interrupts, and Rachel meets her gaze abruptly. “You’re rambling.”

“I do it sometimes… when I’m nervous.”

“I know. Trust me, I know,” Quinn replies gently, collecting her novel from its forgotten place on Rachel’s bedspread. “Why don’t I sleep on the couch tonight? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You can’t! I’m pretty sure Santana’s had sex on that couch. Which, gross. But I’m also kinda sure _I_ had sex on that couch. And I can’t do that to you.”

Quinn tries to suppress the mental images, but it doesn’t work well. “Well, the floor next to your bed is looking pretty comfortable, now that you mention it.”

“ _Quinn_ ,” Rachel chides. “Please. We’re still friends, right? My present inability to control my hormones aside.”

Quinn laughs. “I’m pretty sure the feeling is, ahem, quite mutual? Either way, I promise you it won’t kill me to sleep on the floor for one night.”

“But your back! I bet your orthopedist would strongly disagree.”

“What my orthopedist doesn’t know won’t kill him,” Quinn mutters in response, setting a blanket and pillow down next to her suitcase.

“And if I promise to keep my hands off you? What then?” Rachel’s asking, the curve of her spine Quinn remembers so well just visible as she slips on a t-shirt. (It’s one of Quinn’s. Of _course_ it’s one of Quinn’s. She’s beyond fucked.)

Quinn’s doing a piss-poor job of averting her eyes. “Whatever’s going on – it’s not, _you’re_ not—”

“It’s 2014, Quinn,” Rachel chides casually. “No one does labels anymore. I could be pansexual or just _Quinn_ -sexual; it wouldn’t matter to me.”

“Rachel, I’m trying—”

“I’m tired of serious conversations between us. Aren’t you?” Rachel extends a hand to Quinn, inviting her to take a seat on the bed. “What if, just for this once, we didn’t over-analyze things – new year, new start. What if we just _went_ with it?”

Quinn has to hand it to her – it’s an appealing thought. More than appealing. But Rachel’s offering what, exactly? A couple of quick fucks while she’s in town? An excuse for mutual orgasms, no-strings-attached? “I want to say yes,” Quinn replies cautiously. “If I were any less well-mannered, I’d be kissing the smirk off your face right now.”

Rachel’s smile – half-crooked with flattery, half-smirk – still taunts her. “Oh yeah?”

“But I want to do this properly. With, you know, dates. And things of that nature,” she finishes awkwardly, squirming a little under Rachel’s mindful gaze.

Rachel’s expression softens. “That’s awfully old-fashioned of you. But I guess it’s one of the things I love about you – you’re so… deliberate in what you do.”

Quinn feels a blush creeping in. “Well, you’re worth it. I really don’t want to screw up what we have, Rach. Even if I do enjoy the fact that you can’t seem to keep your hands off me.”

Rachel sends her reeling with a playful shove. “I seem to remember you _not complaining_ when I had my tongue in your mouth, Quinn Fabray!”

Yup, that’s the girl she loves.

She’s drifting in between wakefulness and sleep next to Rachel’s bed when she hears her name. “Mmm?” she mumbles.

“Quinn!”

“I’m awake, I’m awake,” she groans, not bothering to move from her position. “What is it?”

“Get your ass up here. I can’t sleep with you down there.”

“Funny, I didn’t seem to have that problem,” Quinn grumbles as she slips into bed; Rachel’s body rests stiffly beside hers, at first, and then she feels Rachel curl up against her, fingers tracing a path down Quinn’s arm. She hums a little in response.

Later, Quinn vaguely hears the apartment door open and close, the not-so-muted voices of Brittany, Santana, and Kurt echoing through the walls. Rachel doesn’t stir, though.

“You’re still awake?” Quinn murmurs.

Quinn can feel Rachel’s breath through the thin cotton of her t-shirt. “Yeah, sorry, can’t sleep.”

Quinn recognizes the twisting and turning of a burdened mind. “Care to share your feelings with the class, Miss Berry?”

Rachel laughs a little, and it lightens the air. “You’re going to think it’s stupid, Quinn.”

“Just try me,” Quinn replies with a yawn.

“You’re obviously exhausted from traveling and I’m a terrible hostess for keeping you awake. You should sleep. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Quinn needs no further prompting – the last thing she feels before succumbing to sleep is the faint press of lips against the back of her neck, just above the neck of her t-shirt.

Happy New Year, indeed.


End file.
